


The Pretence of an Unacknowledged Truth

by stickleworting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Verse, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickleworting/pseuds/stickleworting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s decided to just be himself, cliché as it sounds. The lie about being Sherlock’s mate will be difficult enough to keep up, he’s not going to think up more of a charade regarding himself on top of that.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>If he uses the wrong fork at dinner, fine. If someone calls him on it, he’ll just stab them with it. Job done.</i>
</p>
<p>First attempt at Omegaverse because a very good friend of mine likes it, and I like my friend. She asked for: alpha!John/omega!Sherlock; age difference; pretend bondmates to meet Sherlock's family; synthesised bond scent; and bonding in Sherlock's old bedroom. I think I'm managing to cram it all in for you, sweetpea ;)</p>
<p>No mpreg, I'm afraid. That was a stretch too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John blinks at the first spritz of bonded scent that Sherlock sprays directly at his face. None of it goes in his eyes, thankfully.

“How long does this last for?” he asks, trying to overlook the way his jeans are suddenly that _little_ bit too tight. Shit, that stuff is intense. Not to mention fast-acting.

Sherlock warned him about that particular side effect before he agreed to this, but he still can’t meet the man’s eyes now. Not with his cock so eloquently giving away his body’s most well-concealed desire. Oh God, why did he agree to this? He’s bound to get found out, a lie based on a truth he can’t ever acknowledge, he’s going to play the role too well and what then? He’ll be out in the cold, searching for a new flatmate.

Possibly worse than the inappropriate erection is the overwhelming feeling of safety and contentedness. A dangerous thing to _ever_ feel around someone such as Sherlock Holmes. He can only imagine what their real bonded scent would be like (yet more dangerous territory), but this synthesised one will work well enough to fool Sherlock’s family. Except perhaps Mycroft, but he’ll be too amused at their antics to rumble them, no doubt.

“It will be necessary to apply it daily while we’re in my mother’s home. I don’t plan for us to stay for more than three days, that’s just about all I’ll be able to tolerate, I think. Particularly at Christmas time. As well as that, it should afford me enough time that I won’t go into heat before I can get back on suppressants.”

Sherlock turns his back to spray the scent over his own neck, and John takes the opportunity to adjust himself, eyes nearly rolling back in his head at the first touch of his hand. He’s going to need to do something about that and soon.

It wouldn’t do to tackle Sherlock to the floor and just rub against him, it really wouldn’t.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, turning back towards him. “That’s rather stronger than I expected.”

A dull pinkish colour creeps its way over Sherlock’s cheekbones, spreading up to his temples. His eyes gleam, his mouth is parted in surprise. John bites back a moan at the sight of him.

“That was the idea, right? Test it out now and see if it’s viable?”

Sherlock nods tightly, teeth biting into his lower lip. His right arm moves and John glances down to see his hand wave in front of his own trousers for a split second before he draws it back to his side, curling it into a shaking fist. John grins. A chink in the armour. Sherlock’s as hard as he is and he _almost_ touched himself without thinking, catching himself at the last moment.

It’s going to be an interesting three days ahead, after they perfect this compound and set off for Sherlock’s Berkshire ancestral home. Tough, but interesting. Very interesting.

“The… the…” Sherlock blinks rapidly, his head nodding forwards as if he were dropping off to sleep rather than just trying to get himself back under some semblance of control. “The initial effects should wear off within an hour, once our bodies acclimatise to the new pheromones.”

“Right,” John says, because his tongue feels heavy and he can’t say much else. He’s actually _aching_ at this point, if he could just relieve some of the pressure… “Do you mind if I-?”

He gestures at his jeans and Sherlock shakes his head quickly. “No, no, by all means, as long as you don’t mind if I…”

The silent room is abruptly filled with twin buzzes as they both unzip themselves and then a sigh of relief (John) followed by a low groan of satisfaction (Sherlock).

“I think,” John says, swaying on the spot and then stumbling backwards until he hits a solid wall that can prop him up. “I think you made the first batch a bit too strong.”

“I agree.” Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut as he strokes himself. Over his underwear, unlike John who has shamelessly pulled himself out to try to gain release.

As Sherlock moves his hand the waistband pulls down and that small glimpse of the head of Sherlock’s cock (evidently still decently-sized, for an Omega) is enough to send John right over the edge with a startled cry. He closes his eyes and keeps stroking, making it last, because bloody hell, it’s never felt like this before outside of a heat.

Distantly, he hears Sherlock come too, giving a deep, drawn-out moan as he does. John wonders what that moan would feel like against him, around him even while he was inside Sherlock. Christ, if Sherlock were in heat right now, he’d probably be coming again at the mere thought.

They’re not in heat though, and eventually the haze of lust and pheromones clears, leaving them awkward and exposed in each other’s presence. The rush to completion is over and John feels ridiculous, oddly sensitive as he tucks himself away and zips his jeans with fingers that tremble and slip.

Sherlock doesn’t appear to be quite as embarrassed as he flops back onto his bed, panting. His trousers are still undone, revealing his pale thighs, the stark contrast of his skin against his black briefs (of course, Sherlock couldn’t be a boxers man with those tight trousers he wears), a wealth of evidence glinting on his abdomen as he throws his forearm over his eyes.

“Much too strong,” he says, not moving his arm. “I’ll make adjustments within the hour… when I can move again.”

John lets out a short laugh, letting himself slide down the wall until he ends up slumped gracelessly against it.

“Sure.”

  
  
\--  
  


Sherlock makes adjustments within _three_ hours in the end, finding himself far too comfortable and satiated to even consider moving after the first hour and then after the second.

For his part, John actually goes to sleep against the wall of Sherlock’s bedroom.

He wakes to Sherlock sitting up on the bed, fully-clothed, and considering him with his head angled to one side.

“What?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes and ignoring the flare of heat in his stomach at being the focus of Sherlock’s undivided attention.

“Is it…” Sherlock trails off, looking away to one side for a second before meeting John’s eyes again, determined. “Is it like that, in heat?”

John takes a moment to wrap his head around the question itself and Sherlock’s reason for asking it.

Sherlock must have experienced heat, he’s an Omega for Christ’s sake. Surely he must know? John knows Sherlock is currently on suppressants (although not _currently_ currently as he’s had to stop to get the bonded scent to work), but he doesn’t know how long he’s been on them for. As long as they’ve been flatmates, certainly. Perhaps Sherlock has only ever had his presenting heat? That would be long enough ago that it would cause Sherlock to ask the question, he wouldn’t have much idea what it was like, particularly if no one shared that first heat with him.

Mycroft has alluded to Sherlock’s virginity before. John had assumed it was a dig at Sherlock’s lack of interest in sex, not a complete personal dearth of it.

It seems ludicrous – such a striking, sensuous creature starved of touch. There _is_ Sherlock’s personality to contend with, though.

The answer to Sherlock’s question is a resounding ‘no’, of course. That masturbation session was intense, but it’s nothing compared to being in heat. They were both pretty desperate there, losing their control as desire overwhelmed them, and the payoff was fantastic. John can see why Sherlock would think the two feelings were analogous. But heat is about a hundred times more extreme. In Sherlock’s bedroom, that was an itch. Hot and close and intolerable, to the point where they both needed to do something about it. So they each had a very satisfying wank and remained very separate while doing so, despite the pheromones in the bonded scent urging them together.

Heat is another thing completely. Heat isn’t comparable to an itch, and it certainly doesn’t let you stay separate. It’s this all-consuming need to fill or be filled, to join with another person in the most carnal way imaginable and _know_ them. To become one, to share the experience, to _give_ yourself over entirely to the other person, to give them what they need and trust them to give themselves to you in return. You’re not done after a single orgasm, you don’t get a rest afterwards. You’re knotted, tied together, with every movement and breath capable of triggering another orgasm, another wave of need. And once the knot subsides, you’re compelled to do it all over again until the heat finishes, which can be anywhere between one day and seven (the maximum on record).

It’s relentless, unstoppable. It can be the most detached fuck of your life, a means to an end, or it can be the deepest and most abiding connection you can make with another soul, bonding yourself to them for life.

Sometimes, John shivers just _thinking_ about bonding during heat. But he’s never met an Omega he’s felt so strongly about that he would want to do it. Until Sherlock, that is. He’d bond with Sherlock tomorrow if he thought Sherlock wanted him in the same way. He’d stay with him forever. As it is, Sherlock seems by turns disgusted and mildly terrified at the very thought of being overcome by his baser urges.

From the way he speaks, Sherlock abhors both the sexual and emotional connection. It’s obvious in the way he’ll sift through evidence at crime scenes, picking out motives like Alpha-jealousy or Omega-desperation with a sneer. He’ll scoff at advertisements for birth control and heat aids that come on late at night, he’ll roll his eyes at news stories about celebrities and who they’re bonding with or just sharing their heats with. Fair enough, John does that last one too.

But it’s never been more apparent how little Sherlock cares for their basic biology and for John’s feelings than when he asked, quite bluntly, if John would keep up the pretence of being his bonded mate when Mycroft called in an untimely favour that would necessitate him to return to his childhood home for Christmas.

No ordinary Omega would ask that. No Alpha would agree to it, for that matter, and yet John had acquiesced, like he always does. He agreed to go along with it, to save Sherlock from his mother’s tears and his extended family’s prying.

John is personally of the opinion that they’ll still pry, and instead of being able to simply give the truth, he and Sherlock are going to have to construct and maintain a complicated, elaborate façade. That didn’t put Sherlock off when he explained it though, no, he just waved a dismissive hand and insisted that the lie would be simpler in the long run.

After this morning’s rather telling experiment with the bonded scent, John isn’t so sure. In fact, he’s more certain than ever that his own hopeless, unrequited feelings are going to get dragged up and torn to shreds.

He sighs. Sherlock is waiting for an answer to his question still, his furrowed brow the only sign of his impatience.

“No,” John ends up saying, “Heat is much, much more. In every possible way.”

“Explain.”

John shrugs. “I can’t, Sherlock. It’s not something you can put into words easily, it’s an experience.”

“Ugh, and you call yourself a writer.”

Sherlock smiles slightly as he says it, taking some of the sting out of the words. It’s clear from his face that he’s not satisfied with John’s answer though. If anything, he’s got his ‘plotting’ face on. John recognises that one exceedingly well.

It always heralds bad things.

  
  
\--  
  


The second batch of bonded scent that Sherlock devises is much less potent. Very diluted. When John gets his dose (self-delivered this time, thank you very much, Sherlock) the next day after the old compound has worn off, he feels only a minor stirring below the waist. It’s as much a relief as it is a disappointment. He and Sherlock never really did address the fact that they both had a rather impressive orgasm in the other’s full view yesterday, getting off (at least a tiny bit) _because_ of the proximity and the delicious voyeuristic element. John definitely felt Sherlock’s sharp gaze on him before they both closed their eyes and gave themselves over to pleasure. The noises were also immensely helpful. And the scent. Okay, fine, everything about it was arousing, and John is actually _very_ disappointed that they apparently won’t be repeating it today.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock asks when he’s sprayed himself. “No detail is insignificant.”

That may be so, John thinks, but some details are personal and not to be shared lightly. That disappointment is one such detail, for example.

“Warm,” he says instead. “Energetic, like I could chase serial killers all day long.”

Sherlock smiles at that. “I may have to keep some of this back then. How do you feel about me, specifically?”

Oh, isn’t that a loaded question. John swallows thickly, his automatic smile in reply to Sherlock’s dropping. “Um, fond? Protective.”

“Protective or possessive?”

Both, definitely both. Truth be told, he feels like himself but exaggerated. He’s always felt these things for Sherlock, the bonded scent has just ramped it up a bit. It’s just the same as when they come back after a solved case, John giddy and adrenaline-drunk, Sherlock high on his own genius, reaching new dizzying heights with only John to tether him to the ground so he can’t float away. John loves him best in those moments.

“Both,” he answers honestly. “What about you?”

Sherlock deliberates, tapping a finger against his lips. It’s a bad gesture for John’s mental health, drawing his attention there immediately.

“Also fond,” he says, frowning as if the feeling confused him, “and warm all over too. I- I feel…” he breaks off, shaking his head. “It’s too ridiculous to say.”

“Hey,” John says, reaching out to take hold of Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock jumps a little at his touch. “What happened to ‘no detail is insignificant’?”

Sherlock grits his teeth, folding his arms (somewhat awkwardly with John still holding onto one of them). “Fine, I feel _cherished,_ are you happy? I feel loved and cared for, like a _pet_.”

Sherlock spits the last word with enough vehemence that John takes his hand away from him at once. Sherlock doesn’t like to be touched when he’s in a mood like this.

“Calm down,” John says, raising his other hand to join the one he just took off Sherlock, holding both palms out in a placating gesture. “It’s just the compound, if it’s not right, we can always-”

“Oh, but it _is_ right, John,” Sherlock snaps, half turning away from him, arms still folded defensively over his chest. “This is the natural exacerbation of our respective biological imperatives. The protective and dominant Alpha and the weak, submissive Omega.”

Just like that, the puzzle pieces begin to slot together. John’s picture of Sherlock becomes a little less blurry.

He hates being an Omega. He hates being seen as the lesser gender, a slave to his body and his impulses, there for an Alpha to take and use. So he takes the suppressants, he supresses his nature but never denies it. He doesn’t masquerade as a Beta, no, not Sherlock. That would be beneath him, obfuscating the truth.

It’s not the bonded scent that causes this particular wave of affection and longing to swell in John’s chest.

Before John can begin to reassure him and tell him how wrong he has it, Sherlock is speaking again, still in that awful, bitter tone. “My family will love you. A big strong Alpha for reckless Sherlock, a doctor and a soldier, what better protector could he have? Eight years older too, just the sort of man young Sherlock needs to beat him into obedience!”

He stops his tirade and looks at John through forlorn eyes, communicating without words that his anger isn’t directed at John.

John already knew that.

“Sherlock,” he begins, soft voiced and edging closer to Sherlock. He wants, _needs_ to lay a hand on him to provide comfort. Sherlock will be more receptive now he’s spent his rage. “Sherlock, you’re not weak at all. For God’s sake, you’re the most imposing figure in any room you happen to stride into, coat billowing like some old-fashioned action hero!”

He reaches out tentatively, taking Sherlock’s right wrist in his left hand. Sherlock may be slender, he may be delicate – fine bones, thin skin – but he’s deceptively strong. He can best John in a fight three out of five times not because he’s a rippling mass of muscle but because he fights _smart_ and he uses his wiry strength and agility to his advantage every time. He’s not defenceless physically, not by any means.

“My coat doesn’t _billow_ , John, because I button it. You’re starting to sound like the dreck you put on your blog.”

John huffs a laugh, but he won’t be distracted. “I’m trying to tell you something, listen to me without insulting me for once, okay? You’re hardly a frail little flower to be shielded from a stiff wind, Sherlock, you know that. And the only reason you even _need_ a protector sometimes is because you _are_ a reckless little shit and you go running into dangerous situations like you don’t know better!”

“That’s why I have you,” Sherlock says, quiet and subdued, eyes cast down and watching John’s hand on his wrist, the thumb rubbing back and forth absently.

“Exactly. So what do you care if your family see me that way? Since when do you care how anyone sees you, or- or us? We’re just us, we’re not what any of them say we are.”

Sherlock blinks a few times and brings his free hand up to cover John’s, raising his head to bestow a heartbreakingly lovely smile upon him – closed mouth, barely there. John sees it though. John always sees it.

“You’re right, John. I don’t call you a conductor of light for nothing.”

And that is as close an admission as John will ever get that he’s managed to be just that little bit smarter than Sherlock. He’ll take it.

“I need to check your scent properly,” Sherlock says after a moment of looking at each other. A moment that dragged on a full minute too long. They’re standing close together, John’s hand still around Sherlock’s wrist, Sherlock’s hand still anchoring him there. It would be a simple matter for Sherlock to lean in and inhale deep enough to check that the bonded scent rings true and for John then to do the same to him.

It’s a very intimate thing to do for a pretence, John can’t help but feel. Scenting is often done to check readiness and to raise arousal before sex, both in and out of heat, and it’s always done before a bond is made and to reaffirm a bond after separation. It’s not something you do with your flatmate with whom you have no bond beyond that of friendship.

Sherlock reads his hesitation instantly, of course he does. “Oh, that tiresome taboo about scenting. If it makes you feel better, I got a good lungful last time you were in hospital unconscious. And after you first moved in, while you were sleeping.”

John should feel violated by that revelation, but societal conventions and personal boundaries have never meant much to Sherlock. He knew that moving in.

It’s wrong (it’s _so_ wrong), but it sends a small thrill down his spine actually, to think of Sherlock scenting him while he was unaware. It’s also confusing. Why would Sherlock do it twice? He can allow curiosity after they first became flatmates, sure, but to do it again when John was injured in hospital? If anything that’s like reaffirming a bond they don’t even have.

“Why?” he asks, doubting he’ll get a straight answer.

“Why not?”

“Oh, you know, small matters really. Invasion of privacy, my lack of consent, our lack of a bond.” John keeps his tone mild; he’s not upset, after all.

“Please, we have a bond, John. Do you really think we don’t?”

“Not the kind that requires scenting.”

John’s heart rate picks up at Sherlock’s words though, he can’t help it. The idea of being bonded to Sherlock always does this to him. It’s a good thing he’s holding Sherlock’s wrist and not the other way around or Sherlock would surely know by now. From the sly look in his eyes, he probably already does.

“But this act of ours, it’s going to require it. I need to check the bonded scent, John. Now, I’m asking you perfectly politely: may I?”

John rolls his eyes and tilts his head to the left. “You only needed to ask,” he says, feeling curiously vulnerable with his head turned away from Sherlock, unable to watch as he leans in and-

The cold tip of a nose bumps into his neck. John stifles a giggle and then a moan when he feels Sherlock inhale deeply, nose _and_ mouth against his skin. Surely his mouth doesn’t need to be right there, does it? Right over a perfectly credible place for a bond bite that would come after he bit Sherlock (Alpha goes first traditionally to assert dominance, and the Omega follows). He imagines it – his teeth marking Sherlock in the place where his scent is most powerful, most alluring, claiming him and letting all others know: this one is _mine_. Sherlock marking him in return, _choosing_ him and making that choice explicitly clear with a bite that John would wear proudly, to be carried with him forever, faded but no less obvious after it eventually healed.

Oh, these are bad thoughts, these are very bad thoughts. He’s standing much too close to Sherlock to be having thoughts like those.

He feels Sherlock shudder against him and wonders if he’s not the only one.

“You done?” he asks when Sherlock doesn’t pull away after a good thirty seconds.

“Just being thorough,” Sherlock murmurs against his skin, every movement of his warm lips a gentle, whispery caress.

John begins to doubt the level of trust he has in his own knees at that point. He decides the trust is in ashes when Sherlock pulls away and he could _swear_ he feels Sherlock’s tongue against his neck as he goes. But that’s impossible, so he begins to distrust his own senses too.

“Will I pass?”

“You smell like you’re mine,” Sherlock says off-handedly, apparently unaware of the shake in John’s exhale at his words. “Or, rather, like I’m yours. Isn’t that how it goes? Omega belongs to Alpha, not the other way around.”

John doesn’t answer immediately. He flicks his head to the side in a gesture to order Sherlock to do the same. Defiance is written all through Sherlock as he bares his throat to John. It’s there in his eyes, the jut of his chin, the rigidity of his body. John enjoys the moment he feels Sherlock soften and lose some of that tension – the moment he lays a hand against the curve of Sherlock’s neck (ostensibly to steady himself) and leans in close to breathe him in.

Sherlock smells fantastic, a heady mix of their two scents. The smell of Sherlock is almost indistinguishable from his own in the compound, but John knows Sherlock’s scent too well to not be able to separate them. There’s the lingering sandalwood of his expensive soap underneath the salt of as-yet-unwashed detective, there’s sweetened tea, sweetened coffee, the pine of the kitchen table that doubles as Sherlock’s lab bench, the distinctive stale air of St Bart’s morgue, London’s damp, smog-filled atmosphere. Sherlock smells as sterile and unattainable as he does familiar and homely, a never-ending contradiction. He’s never predictable, never obvious.

“You smell like us,” he says against Sherlock’s skin, indulging himself by letting his mouth skim over Sherlock’s pulse point, fancying that the beat he feels is fractionally elevated from the resting rate he knows so well. “Nothing more, nothing less. Mine, yours, doesn’t matter.”

John steps back, feeling cold as they separate. A remnant of warmth rushes through him when he sees Sherlock’s eyes open – they were closed as he scented him.

“We’re ready to meet the family, then,” Sherlock says grimly.

  
  
\--  
  


The train journey is nearly unbearable. From the moment they step off the platform at London Paddington and onto the train, John feels the stares. In fact, it starts long before then, but John only _really_ notices it in the confined space of the carriage.

He’s used to the stares, although he’s not usually the recipient. Sherlock always turns heads wherever he goes, that’s just his lot in life. Even on suppressants, Sherlock’s dulled scent as an unbonded Omega gets him plenty of attention. Add to that his infuriating physical attractiveness and he’s quite the eligible bachelor.

The problem is this: he’s utterly indifferent to the fact. John wants to strangle him sometimes, he really does. Sherlock seems to have no idea how difficult it is to stand at his side and not _want_ him with such intensity that it’s like walking around feeling sick all the while.

It’s different now, because Sherlock smells like a bonded Omega, and John smells like his Alpha. The stares they’re receiving are envious, particularly those directed at John. A few of them are also incredulous, which puts John’s back up straight away because those looks seem to suggest he isn’t worthy of Sherlock. He doesn’t think he _is_ , but these people have no right (and no data, Sherlock would say) to judge.

It’s annoying, but he can handle a couple of malicious looks. What he’s really struggling with are his own convoluted feelings. He and Sherlock each applied the synthesised bond scent right before they left and he’s got the same jumble of emotions and thoughts as before.

Sherlock is next to him, apparently unaffected, lost in thought like always when they travel and looking out the window. John meanwhile is fighting several impulses which, in no particular order include: nuzzle at Sherlock’s neck, glare back at every train passenger who gives them a second glance, stick his hand down Sherlock’s trousers, stick his hand down his _own_ trousers, and punch every bastard who looks at him like they could take him. They couldn’t. It kills him that he can’t prove that very publicly right this second.

It doesn’t help that the bonded scent is like an ill-fitting suit. He’s wearing it but it’s not right and he knows it. He’s horribly self-conscious and even more aware of Sherlock beside him. Their thighs are pressed together. Their dominant hands are seven inches apart. Sherlock is breathing marginally faster than normal, likely due to whatever avenues of thought he’s dashing down before taking a corner at breakneck speed into another unchartered area of contemplation.

John’s blood seems to be humming beneath his skin, reminding him with every second how detached he and Sherlock are, their only point of connection being that small stretch of thigh. He presses closer and Sherlock turns his head, favours him with a quick, involuntary smile and turns away again.

John wants to scream.

On the upside, the whole sorry business does distract him from the hair-raising prospect of meeting Sherlock’s family. When he’s allowed himself to think about it (only for short periods, lest he go mad), he’s pictured all of Sherlock’s family as being more like Mycroft than Sherlock. He’s always had the feeling that Sherlock is something of a black sheep, something to do with his… colourful history and his obvious rejection of the particular comforts Mycroft likes to luxuriate in.

He knows Sherlock’s family is affluent, they’re currently headed to _Windsor_ of all places, John wouldn’t have been all that surprised if Sherlock had said he lived next door to the castle. Stranger things and all that.

The chip on his shoulder is no doubt going to make itself known, no matter how many times Sherlock sourly insists that his family will like John more than they like him. The train journey is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to judging eyes that find him wanting, he’s certain.

He’s decided to just be himself, cliché as it sounds. The lie about being Sherlock’s mate will be difficult enough to keep up, he’s not going to think up more of a charade regarding himself on top of that.

If he uses the wrong fork at dinner, fine. If someone calls him on it, he’ll just stab them with it. Job done.

Sherlock’s low voice breaks him from his worries. “You’re thinking about this far too much.”

“Am I?” he asks, keeping his voice down to match Sherlock’s on the crowded train. “You’ve told me next to nothing about what to expect here, Sherlock. We’ve barely even arranged whatever backstory you want us to tell your family!”

Sherlock tuts lightly as though he couldn’t possibly find John more tedious. “We bonded last month after a long, successful friendship which turned romantic. You courted me like a perfect Alpha gentleman for five months and our bonding heat was the first we shared together. Satisfied?”

“Is it a bit... don’t you think that’s a bit contrived?”

Scoffing, Sherlock turns to look out the window again. “It’s traditional and wholesome, John. My mother will love it.”

“Are you a traditionalist?” John asks, because it’s so rare that they talk about this beyond Sherlock’s sneering asides about society and John’s patient acceptance of them.

He wants to know. Does Sherlock believe that you should only share heat with someone if you’re going to bond with them? Heat before bonding is generally accepted these days, encouraged even, to ensure compatibility in all areas. Unbonded pregnancy has gone up, sure, but unhappily bonded pairs are much rarer than they used to be.

Sherlock shrugs, not bothering to look at John as he speaks to the window in front of him, breath fogging up the glass. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“You’ve never shared your heat with anyone, have you?”

John already knows the answer to this, but he’s hoping to get Sherlock to open up about the reason behind it.

“No,” Sherlock says, and he offers no more after that.

“Why?”

“Because that would require someone with whom I wished to spend it, it would be time-consuming and messy, and there would be a risk of pregnancy, even on a contraceptive. Why on earth would I want to do it?”

“For the experience.”

John has experienced three heats in his lifetime – the first was Hannah’s when he was twenty-one (she left him when he told her he was joining the army), and two were with Daniel in Afghanistan (an unfortunate suppressant-resistant Omega, the doctors could never balance the contents of his pill correctly. He was sent home after the second mishap and he’s ignored all of John’s attempts to get in touch since). The relationships ended badly because of poor circumstances, but at the time, the connection was irreplaceable. He can’t tell Sherlock, but he wants that connection back desperately.

“I have a working knowledge of the basic anatomy and several textbooks with case studies and first-hand accounts. My work hasn’t suffered from my lack of _experience_.”

“Oh sod the work,” John cuffs Sherlock’s shoulder, forcing him to make eye contact, “what about you personally, Sherlock? Do you think _you_ haven’t suffered? Don’t you- Haven’t you ever wanted to _be_ with anyone?”

Sherlock regards him coolly, his features smooth and bland. John is fully expecting a ‘no’. What he doesn’t expect is for Sherlock to say: “Yes, twice, if you must know.”

John gapes, slack-jawed in surprise. Sherlock reaches across and shuts his mouth for him with a quick press of his fingers against John’s chin. John’s teeth click together and he swallows audibly, still gawking at Sherlock.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock says with an irritated huff. “I may not _like_ it, but I’m not a machine, John, I’m still an Omega.”

“Yes, but you- You’re so… _Who_?”

A roll of Sherlock’s eyes at that. “Very articulate, well done. And I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

John opens his mouth to reply _I suppose not_ when an announcement from above lets them know that they’re approaching the station they want.

As they get off the train and into the waiting black car out the front (damn Mycroft), John’s whole perception is skewed off its axis and refusing to right itself.

_Twice_. So Sherlock has wanted a grand total of two people in his lifetime. It’s more than the zero figure that John had been expecting, but it’s a low number considering Sherlock has admitted to actually _wanting_ people at all. John burns with curiosity. Who were they? Alphas, Betas? Male, female?

One must be Irene Adler. She seemed to be Sherlock’s perfect Alpha, a match for him biologically, intellectually, _and_ in the looks department. Despite preferring Omega females, she made it _very_ clear that she would make an exception for Sherlock, and yet he never missed a single suppression pill throughout that time, taking a small round tablet with his tea in front of John every morning like he normally did.

Perhaps that wasn’t for lack of wanting like John initially thought.

What about outside of heat, anyway? Has Sherlock had sex _at all_?

He can’t really just come out and ask that, he’s had his admission from Sherlock today. That particular question will have to wait for at least a year before Sherlock decides that he’s earned another straight answer.

So, Irene is one. He has no clue who the other person might be, so it must be someone before his time. There’s no one else he’s met since moving in with Sherlock that the man has expressed even a single iota of interest in. Besides himself, of course, but they’re not like that.

“Stop obsessing, John,” Sherlock chides eventually from the other side of the car, thumbs flying over his phone’s keyboard as he sends off a message to God knows who. Lestrade asking him about a case?

“I’m-” he gives up before he can even get started denying it. It’s a waste of time and breath around someone as perceptive as Sherlock. “I’m just a bit surprised.”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock says, boredom laced all through his flat voice. “You were labouring under the assumption that I simply have no sexual inclinations, or that my disdain for them somehow negates the fact that I have them at all.”

“And I was wrong.” John doesn’t bother phrasing it as a question.

“The evidence of your own eyes has failed you yet again.”

Sounds a lot like ‘you see but you don’t observe’. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock smiles. It’s an old and familiar joke between them, but John’s smile in return is more a show of teeth than one of mirth.

He’s missing something obvious here, and Sherlock has as good as told him that. A churning sensation starts up in his stomach – frustration and dread. Frustration with Sherlock (whose ability to speak bluntly is rivalled only by his inability to speak plainly) and dread for the three days ahead of him, having to deal with Sherlock’s family and with Sherlock himself while pretending to be his mate, all without giving himself away as the lovesick fool that he really is.

He just hopes he can pull it off.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock’s home (“just outside Windsor, John, I didn’t actually live next door to a castle”), isn’t _quite_ as extravagant as John had been expecting, but it’s not far off. The fact that the driver stopped in front of two bloody massive iron gates to use the intercom wasn’t the first indication of grandeur, John had already extrapolated from the other houses he saw in the area and knew what was coming.

“Who lives in a house like this?” he murmurs, gratified to see Sherlock’s frown in response. Another reference that went over the top of his head.

John unabashedly leans forwards in his seat, trying to see more through the windscreen. The mansion that comes into view as they travel up the tree-lined driveway is _stunning_ and John can’t help but feel intimidated. Christ, this is not his world, not at all. Give him a cloudless blue sky over desert sands, a gun in his hand, a sweaty helmet on his head. Give him the stark strip-lighting of a hospital corridor, the coughs and sniffles and complaints of a beige-walled waiting room. No, better than that: give him the intimacy of 221B Baker Street, the fire roaring as he sits in his armchair with his eyes closed and Sherlock playing the violin with the lights off.

It’s absurd, but he suddenly feels acutely homesick.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, “we’re here.”

It’s not a redundant statement – of course John can tell that they’ve arrived – it’s Sherlock’s (unusually kind) way of telling him to get his feet back on the ground and get out of the car.

He reaches out an arm and the door is pulled open before he can do it himself, letting a cold blast of December air in. The driver ducks his head in to beam at him, somewhat disconcertingly.

“All set, Dr Watson?” he asks.

John nods at him. “Yes, thank you. At ease.”

The driver’s false grin becomes a surprised smile. Sherlock isn’t the only one who can observe things, John thinks smugly as he smiles back. He’s also noted the man is a married Beta, though he doesn’t doubt Sherlock would have noticed far more besides.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks the driver as he gets out of the car, turning his head to share the joke over the roof with Sherlock.

It’s funny – he was anticipating a smile from Sherlock, and yet seeing it still manages to knock the breath out of his lungs in one go. Sherlock’s eyes are soft as they regard him with no small amount of fondness, the corners of his mouth curving gently upwards in the way they do when Sherlock can’t hold back a smile, when he’s so pleased with something John does or says that he just can’t seem to help showing it.

John always wants to kiss him when his lips are shaped that way.

Actually, John just always wants to kiss him.

Bugger.

He turns his head back to the driver to hear his answer, face flushing a little at the knowing glint in the other man’s eyes.

It reminds him: they’re _meant_ to be a couple now. It’s not a mistake he has to correct while they’re here, he and Sherlock are supposed to be bonded and they need to act that way.

They really haven’t discussed this enough. He’s just been thinking about kissing Sherlock, what if he gets his wish as part of this act? How far does Sherlock want to take the pretence?

He gets some idea when Sherlock comes around the car, footsteps near silent even with gravel under the soles of his shoes, and casually slips his hand into John’s. Sherlock’s fingers are warm as they curl around his.

John stammers the rest of his reply to the now openly smirking driver, trying to ignore the way Sherlock’s thumb is intermittently dragging over his knuckles. That’s just unnecessary, the driver can’t even _see_ that.

“Thank you, Robert,” Sherlock says, his voice a low rumble in John’s ear from where he’s plastered himself to John’s side, “that will be all.”

The driver – Robert – tips his cap to Sherlock and gets back into the car, heading off in the direction of the garages and leaving Sherlock and John looking at the doors at the top of the stone steps ahead of them.

Sherlock hasn’t let go of his hand. “You’re doing fine,” he says, squeezing with light pressure.

The gesture of reassurance is unnerving. John has to wonder what other odd displays of consideration he might be in for now that they’re here and pretending to be bonded. He wonders if Sherlock is going to attempt to stay in-character the whole time, as he seems to be doing.

“Yeah, _now_ , what about when I meet… just who am I meeting, anyway?”

“Why don’t you come inside and find out?” a familiar voice says from in front of them.

John looks up to see Mycroft standing in the open doorway, one arm held out to usher them inside.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft,” he says, letting the sarcasm edge its way into his tone.

Mycroft must know what Sherlock is plotting, there’s no way he doesn’t already know about their little arrangement.

“John,” Mycroft returns by way of greeting. He sniffs pointedly afterwards, one corner of his mouth tugging back for a smirk rather than upwards in a smile. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

Sherlock is _still_ holding onto his hand, his grip just slightly firmer since clapping eyes on his older brother. It’s animosity towards Mycroft rather than nerves or an attempt to draw comfort, John knows. He can’t let himself get carried away here; he can’t lose sight of who Sherlock really is.

“Thank you,” John says, as smoothly as he can. He’s better at this acting lark than Sherlock gives him credit for. He’s going to prove that while they’re here if nothing else.

“And congratulations to you as well, Sherlock, of course. Mother was very happy indeed when I gave her the good news.”

Sherlock’s only reply is to give his brother his very best mockery of a smile.

Mycroft’s smirk becomes wider. “Come inside, please. Everyone wants to meet the man who’s captured our Sherlock’s heart. They’re becoming bored with my recollections of you, I’m sure.”

_Everyone._ Just who is everyone? And what has Mycroft been saying about him to them?

He flicks a glance at Sherlock who nods at his unspoken question. It reminds him of the pool incident with Moriarty when their positions were reversed. This situation is nowhere _near_ as dire, but there’s a heavy amount of trust involved in Sherlock bringing him home to meet his family, let alone asking him to pretend to be his mate.

Sherlock wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important to him, would he?

The thought spurs him on. He’s going to excel at this, not just to make the experience bearable but for Sherlock, for the trust he’s placed in him.

“Don’t mind if we do,” John says brightly, tugging on Sherlock’s hand. “Come on, love.”

The endearment, albeit consciously used for effect, feels far too natural as it leaves his mouth. If the word alarms Sherlock he doesn’t show it.

Three days, John thinks as they walk up the steps together, three days to get through.

Before, he was worried that three days was going to be too long. Too long to keep up the act, too long for Sherlock _not_ to notice John’s true feelings.

Now he’s not sure it’s going to be long enough. Casual touches, casual endearments. No, it’s not going to be enough at all. Not for him.

  
  
\--  
  


The house is as John imagined it. Every room has beautiful paintings, intricately carved furnishings, plush carpets. As much as John has been worried about not fitting in, he can’t deny that he’s going to enjoy getting to know the old house.

Sherlock’s family, meanwhile, are just _awful._

Mycroft’s particular brand of awfulness should have been warning enough, but John would take a whole house full of Mycrofts over the relations he does meet.

Sherlock’s aunts are quick-witted and scheming, his cousins are slow-witted and simpering. All of them are cruel. Sherlock’s great-uncle is the most tolerable one of them all, if only because he takes one look at John, labels him as ‘horrifically common’, and refuses to say another word to him in English (and John’s school-level French did not prepare him for a churlish great-uncle, nor would he attempt to hold conversation with the man even if it _had_ ). Said great-uncle also labels their bond as a ‘sham’, which makes Sherlock tense, but he’s quickly shot down by one aunt who labels _him_ as a ‘senile old fool’.

Three days, John thinks, is going to be plenty of time after all. More than enough.

Aside from Great-Uncle Frederick, the rest of Sherlock’s family can’t seem to get enough of John as he gets introduced to each of them in turn.

“Oh, but you must be so _patient_ , putting up with our Sherlock!” That’s one of Sherlock’s cousins, Lucy. Petite, short brown hair, oddly pointy teeth. Too much perfume.

An aunt who looks to be in her mid to late 50s is obviously very taken with him; the warm, lightly squeezing hand on his arm is something of a give-away. “You’re very handsome, Dr Watson, what on earth made you pick a funny little creature like Sherlock here to bond with, hmm?”

“You were in the army?” asks another cousin (Edward? Edwin? Edmund?). “That’s so exciting! Come sit beside me, you simply _must_ tell me more about that.”

John refuses this and all the similar demands that follow it as politely as he can. At his side, Sherlock grips his hand and uses his palm as a substitute for a stress ball rather than lashing out at his relatives. He bares his teeth in a false smile and doesn’t speak when spoken to. It’s quite the display of restraint, coming from Sherlock. Especially in the face of so many comments that are more barbed than even _Anderson_ tends to throw at him.

John can’t understand it. No favour to Mycroft is worth this, surely. Sherlock must have an ulterior motive for being here with the family he so obviously loathes.

Perhaps he really _does_ want to see his mother, but Mycroft proclaimed early on in the evening that she was ‘ill’ and ‘resting’, which Sherlock scoffed at. Yet another thing John can’t make sense of. He can’t help but want to kick himself for walking into this situation so blindly.

When John finally isn’t being accosted anymore by Aunt-somebody or Cousin-whoever, he pulls Sherlock to one side, draws him away from the stifling heat of the fireplace and the cloying cigarette smoke around it. That in itself must be torture for Sherlock too, if the intermittent twitches of the clammy fingers that cling to his are anything to go by.

“And I thought my family was bad!” John says when they’re out of earshot, tucked in the corner of the room. “I think it’s going okay though, yeah?”

Sherlock presses close to him in their newfound haven, as if shielding him with his body. _Couple_ , John thinks, they’re a couple here and they’re having a private word, this is totally natural.

The mantra of ‘be natural’ circling in his mind falters when Sherlock drops his head down to rest his temple against John’s and sighs heavily.

“Thanks to you,” he says, voice low and quiet, warm against John’s skin. He doesn’t need to speak any louder this close. “You’re doing a wonderful job keeping me sane.”

“That’s what I’m for,” John replies, eyes gently fluttering closed as he feels Sherlock’s lips press against the corner of his mouth. He lets out a soft breath when Sherlock moves lower, his nose rubbing against John’s jaw and then his neck. John brings both his hands up to the back of Sherlock’s head, tugging at his hair to pull him off.

“You- what are you doing? Your family are right there, you can’t scent- Sherlock!”

That last frantically whispered outburst is a response to a hot, wet stroking sensation against his throat before the damp spot turns cool in the air. Sherlock is licking his neck.

John stifles a groan, his fingers relaxing their grip on Sherlock’s hair, tangling through the curls to hold rather than pull as Sherlock’s hands find their way to his lower back, drawing John even closer to him and pressing their hips together.

“Christ,” John breathes. “You’re hard.”

Sherlock raises his head again after giving John’s throat a final lick, a delicate swipe of his tongue. His pupils are wide and his lips are parted, the lower one flushed a dark pink where he’s bitten and released it, and even more tempting than usual.

“I don’t know why-” Sherlock begins, breaking off to shake his head. “I can’t seem to stop,” he says urgently, tilting his hips forward against John’s, breath hitching at the friction. “You just smell so… so… _fuck_.”

There’s a curse he hasn’t heard out of Sherlock’s mouth before. There’s something strangely magnificent about the way his soft voice catches on the hard, vulgar word. Not only that: the impassioned meaning behind the it, the fact that Sherlock – perpetually, _frightfully_ eloquent Sherlock – can’t articulate himself right now beyond that one word… well, it’s all gone straight to John’s cock.

Here they are, in a room full of Sherlock’s family, both sporting inappropriate erections and only not engaging in some superb frottage because of John’s force of will. Sherlock is utterly shameless, trying to grind against him and letting out quiet noises of frustration as John keeps holding him back.

“Stop it, Sherlock, right now before someone turns around and sees.”

Anderson in a dress, John thinks, cycling through his most unpleasant mental images. _Anderson in a dress._ It’s not working as well as it usually would. Anderson taking the dress _off._ Oh, that works.

John shudders.

“I really can’t,” Sherlock says from between gritted teeth.

“What is the _matter_ with you?”

“I don’t know, John, but you have to help me-”

Suddenly there are two broad hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling him backwards and away from John.

“Ah newly-bonded couples,” Mycroft says, gripping Sherlock tightly when he tries to surge back towards John. “So eager. Perhaps you need to go have a lie down, Sherlock, I’m sure you’re just tired from your long journey.”

John looks over Mycroft’s shoulder and, sure enough, everyone is staring in their direction. At least Mycroft is blocking them and their… predicament from view.

Sherlock huffs through his nose in a parody of a laugh. He’s stopped struggling and the heat (bloody hell, _heat)_ in his eyes is clearing. “We came from _London_ , Mycroft.”

“Nevertheless, I think it would be wise if you went and had a rest. Your charming Doctor here can help me entertain our guests, he seems far more alert.”

John nods, still a bit dazed. Distance from Sherlock is what he needs right now. “Sounds like a good idea.”

He reaches out and gives Sherlock’s hand a forceful squeeze. Sherlock scowls.

“Go and get yourself under control,” Mycroft hisses into Sherlock’s ear. “Neither of us cares for these people, but I still won’t have you embarrassing me in front of them.”

“You’re doing that well enough on your own,” Sherlock retorts.

John opens his mouth to encourage Sherlock to comply with Mycroft’s request again, but he’s cut off by Sherlock grimacing and bucking when Mycroft’s hands tighten around his shoulders. “I know what’s happening,” Mycroft says softly, menace layered through his bland tone, “and I know your motive. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing here, little brother, I wonder if John would be happy if he knew about the depth of your manip-”

“Fine,” Sherlock cuts him off. “Just stop talking and I’ll go. Take your hands off me then.”

Mycroft relaxes his grip and Sherlock twists away from him at once, about to stalk off pointedly when Mycroft speaks again: “Sherlock, I would advise that you take your-”

“I don’t need to take anything,” Sherlock snaps. “You have it all wrong, as usual.”

John can only watch the exchange with growing confusion.

“I have it exactly _right_ , as usual. Do as you please, then. Just remember: you don’t have very long now.”

Sherlock bestows a withering glare on his older brother and leaves the room without another word. His relatives watch with varying degrees of interest and outrage showing on their faces. Uncle Frederick seems rather amused by the spectacle.

“What’s going on?” John asks, wincing when Sherlock slams the door behind him.

“Can’t you tell, Doctor?”

John frowns. That’s a hint, if ever he was given one. He has a suspicion, but it _can’t_ be. Sherlock told him they’d have time.  Three days he’d said. They could be here for three days and Sherlock would still have more than enough time to get back on suppressants before his altered hormone levels triggered a long-denied heat.

Amongst the rush of… other sensations as Sherlock crowded him against that wall, he did notice a slight change in Sherlock’s scent. But that was to be expected, the bonded scent was variable, it had to be as it overlaid their natural scents which would continue to shift fluidly like they normally would. A static scent would have given their ruse away within an hour.

“He’s not…” John licks his lips, trying to quiet down the part of him that’s rejoicing. “He can’t be going into heat.”

“I wouldn’t say he _can’t_ , seeing as that is precisely what he _is_ doing.”

The curve of Mycroft’s lips is downright sadistic. John shuts his eyes and brings both hands up to bury his face in them. Just when he thought this couldn’t get any fucking worse.

  
  
\--  
  


Sherlock re-joins them after dinner a few hours later, pale and sweating. His shirt is only half tucked in, his curls are flat on one side and a few creases mar the smooth skin of his cheek on the same side. He must have actually gone and had a lie-down. To John, Sherlock resting after being ordered to is near unfathomable. Definitely cause for concern. He goes to Sherlock instantly, reaching a hand up to his forehead to check his temperature.

“Don’t fuss,” Sherlock says, batting his hand away.

John glares at him. “Don’t be a prat. I know what’s happening.”

“Worked it out then?” Sherlock sneers. “Or did Mycroft have to tell you?”

“I am a doctor, you know.”

Sherlock’s relatives are quietly conversing, each with a glass of liquor in hand, most with a cigarette or cigar in the other. After dinner, the men are standing or leaning by the mantelpiece, the women are sat together on the other side of the room and giggling at something or other. It seems old-fashioned, but it’s nothing compared to dinner which John had to endure _alone_ , sat at a ridiculously large table with ridiculously large courses and too much cutlery. John managed not to stab anyone with a fork, at the very least.

The worst part was being sat next to an aunt who _insisted_ on teaching him proper etiquette and a cousin (the name completely escapes him now – he didn’t care enough to remember) who wouldn’t shut up about his studies at Cambridge.

He was sat across from bitter Great-Uncle Fred, who merely continued to pretend that John didn’t exist. Definitely his favourite Holmes after Sherlock and even Mycroft. In fact, he’s really the _only_ other Holmes, the rest are all Sherlock’s mother’s relations. Somewhat surprisingly, they’re all betas and they’re all… well, _normal._ Not one of them has displayed truly above-average intellect yet, reading English at Cambridge or not. Considering how Mycroft and Sherlock are, John was expecting far more intrusive deductions to be flying around the table, rather than sycophantic back-patting over perceived successes like promotions and graduations.

That’s not to say Sherlock’s relations aren’t intrusive, but instead of being able to figure things out, they just keep _asking_ things. They seem to be quite fixated on John and Sherlock’s bond, which only put John more on edge throughout the meal. He carefully dodged nearly all the questions, not keen to answer anything without Sherlock present. Any discrepancies in their stories could render this entire exercise completely pointless.

Sherlock’s mother didn’t come down to dinner at all and Mycroft discreetly had something sent up. The rest of the family have barely mentioned her, save to request that Mycroft wish her well and remember them to her when he sees her. John watched Mycroft smile loftily at each request and he’s started to get the idea that the majority if not all of the relatives present are quite possibly gold-digging hangers-on.

From the house and from Mycroft’s in general, it’s clear that the Holmes family name has wealth, power and influence attached to it. From dinner, it’s become apparent that not one of these relations is anywhere near as well-off. The interest in Sherlock and John’s bond makes more sense after John’s realisation – Mycroft is an unbonded alpha and looks set to remain that way, so Sherlock (as a bonded and therefore supposedly _stable_ sort of person) stands to inherit the most in the event of their mother’s death. Or, at least, he would do if he and John actually _were_ bonded. It makes sense that everyone would want to get on John’s good side, seeing as getting on Sherlock’s is obviously a lost cause.

No mention of Sherlock’s father has been made since they arrived, not by any family member. The unexpected normality of the family would suggest that if there is any nature vs. nurture debate to be had, Mycroft and Sherlock’s intelligence must come from their father somehow.

Before it was decided that they would be coming here, Sherlock hadn’t spoken about his parents at all except for a single mention of ‘mummy’ when John was first moving in with Sherlock and finally learnt that Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother rather than his sworn enemy (although Sherlock would still argue that he was both).

John has since found out – much to his relief – that Sherlock and Mycroft don’t actually call their mother ‘mummy’, that was just Mycroft goading his younger brother. The idea of Sherlock willingly calling anyone ‘mummy’ is more than a little bit mind-boggling.

“Ah, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice floats over from the fireplace, and he bows graciously to excuse himself from his guests before coming over to them. “Back from your much needed rest, I see. Feeling better?”

Sherlock says nothing, preferring instead to glower at his brother.

“Perhaps we shall see Mother tonight,”Mycroft continues without missing a beat. “The maid will have awoken her to eat not long ago, and she has expressed a most ardent wish to see your-” Mycroft pauses his speech, turns his head towards John and smiles unpleasantly, “-bonded mate. She’s talked of nothing else since you confirmed you would be attending for Christmas and asked me to give her your splendid news.”

Sherlock doesn’t look even remotely enthused at the idea of seeing his mother. There goes that theory, John thinks. “If we must,” he says, heaving a sigh and holding his hand out to John, who takes it with a hidden smile. He really mustn’t get used to that, it’s not something he would want to do anyway if he and Sherlock _were_ in a real relationship. Here though, in this pretence… well, it’s a scrap, isn’t it? A demonstration of physical affection, and John is _so damn far gone_ for Sherlock that he’ll take it.

God help him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks to all who have commented/bookmarked/left kudos. I'm glad you're enjoying this.
> 
> This is the part where I decided to take some liberties with the Omegaverse... verse. Hope it works.
> 
> I think I should probably put a warning for mental health disorders in this part.

They climb stairs and pass through corridors in silence. Mycroft and Sherlock move with familiarity, taking everything in but not admiring anything along the way. John meanwhile has wandered with no small amount of awe past at least four family portraits, eight paintings that look like they belong in the National Gallery, seventeen priceless vases, and one suit of armour.

“Father was something of a collector,” Sherlock mutters to him after John stops to gape at a stuffed moose head on one wall. It explains much.

John closes his mouth and follows Sherlock when he angles his head in the direction of Mycroft’s retreating back.

 _Was,_ John thinks, not _is_. That could be important.

When he catches up, John boldly slips his hand back into Sherlock’s. Sherlock gives him a quick, tight smile, shoulders raised.

“Okay?” John asks, soft and straightforward.

“It won’t surprise you to learn that I don’t get on with my mother,” Sherlock says out of the corner of his mouth, eyes on Mycroft walking ahead of them.

“It surprises me when you _do_ get on with anyone.” John squeezes Sherlock’s hand to convey that he meant it as a joke and is amazed when Sherlock returns the squeeze, a faint increase in pressure around John’s fingers.

“Quite,” he says, a smile in his tone. “You must know you’re the exception to the rule by now.”

John thinks of Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. “Not entirely.”

Sherlock huffs. It’s an acknowledgement, of sorts. “You should know that my mother is a hypochondriac. Considering you’re a doctor, you should know that Mycroft has probably told her that, and now she’ll be waiting for you with bated breath.”

“So when Mycroft said earlier that she was ill…”

“He meant that, yet again, she says that she’s ill. I wonder what it is this time; nothing could top the brain tumour of the last Christmas I spent here. I expect she’s recovered from that now though. It has been six years, after all.”

John ponders all of that. If anything, it sounds like Sherlock’s mother must have a severe mental illness.

“Has she been diagnosed? Does she have Münchausen syndrome?”

Sherlock barks a loud laugh, causing Mycroft to turn to them and glare. Sherlock ignores him. “For a permanently sick woman, she has a… paradoxical hate of most medical professionals.” He gives John a sideways glance. “Family not included, naturally. And it’s not Münchausen syndrome, she never _makes_ herself ill, she just claims that she’s dying all the time. It’s rather tiresome really, being related to her. Especially with that horde of vultures downstairs just waiting and _hoping_ that this time it’s real.”

So John was right about them being gold-diggers. His skills of observation are obviously improving. It’s strange: this quiet confession of Sherlock’s, their joined hands, presenting themselves like a couple, a single unit. This whole trip has been something of a revelation. He’s learned more about Sherlock in the last day than he has in years of being flatmates and best friends. There has to be some meaning in that, doesn’t there? Sherlock doesn’t give away information about himself lightly.

“And was she like that for your whole childhoo-”

John is cut off by Mycroft stopping at a door and turning to them. “This is the one,” he says. It’s for John’s benefit, but Sherlock still folds his arms and scowls as if to say _I know_.

“Do try to be civil, won’t you, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s patronising tone only deepens Sherlock’s glower. “And John, do try to be convincing. I’d hate for your ruse to be discovered.”

John thinks he’s been doing a fine job of acting like Sherlock’s bonded mate. No one besides Mycroft even seems to suspect, and he has to fight down a glare to match Sherlock’s at the insinuation that he’s not convincing enough in the role. This is practically method acting, he thinks, _so fuck you_.

Mycroft’s lips curl up in a knowing smirk, and John realises he probably knows all about John’s unrequited feelings anyway, the bastard. He’s probably at just the right distance to see that John is a complete and utter moron, unlike Sherlock who is so close to him that he simply thinks John is an idiot and doesn’t know the true extent of his stupidity. Honestly, what man could be foolish enough to actually develop feelings for Sherlock Holmes? Only John Watson.

Mycroft opens the door and ushers them both inside ahead of him. Sherlock enters first, his hand tugging its way out of John’s to push John behind him as he goes. It’s an oddly protective gesture, oddly… sweet.

Not for the first time, John just wants to give up this charade, put them back to their status quo. He can’t take this, not knowing which things are an act, which things are really Sherlock. Which things are really _them_.

John treads carefully behind Sherlock, feeling apprehensive. It’s silly, considering what he and Sherlock have both been through over the years, but it’s still there and John isn’t one to deny something he feels, even if it’s irrational. Or, at least, he doesn’t deny it to himself.

It’s just a feeling, an instinct like he would get in Afghanistan. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that there _was_ someone dying in this room.

“Hello, Mother,” he hears Sherlock say. The emphasis on the word ‘mother’ says it all.

When John gets into the room properly, the first thing he notices is how dark it is. Dust floats lazily through a single beam of light coming from between the heavy curtains that cover the window. It’s dim in the room with only a soft glow from a lamp on the bureau, but John’s eyes adjust quickly and he takes in the ornate four poster bed, the rich crimson sheets, the woman lying in the centre. She looks small in the large bed, grey hair fanned out behind her on the pillow. She opens her eyes at Sherlock’s voice and John is struck by how like Sherlock’s they are in shape and colour. The family resemblance doesn’t end there, Sherlock’s mother is finely boned, almost feline in her features, and it soon becomes clear that Mycroft must have inherited his looks more from his father.

“Sherlock,” she says in a raspy whisper. “My boy, is that really my son?”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s clear voice is a stark contrast as he speaks in a bored tone. “Or have you gone blind since I saw you last?”

John glances over his shoulder towards Mycroft, uncomfortable with the situation playing out in front of him. Mycroft comes into the room, shuts the door and then stands unobtrusively by it, hands clasped behind his back. His stance plainly says he’s not going to interfere, but his nod says that John should go to Sherlock’s side as support.

“Not blind, merely forgetful. I’m an old lady now, and you visit so infrequently… The mind isn’t what it used to be.”

“I’m sure it’s not far off what it used to be,” Sherlock retorts.

“And who is this?” Sherlock’s mother asks when John reaches the bed. “I don’t know this man, who is he? You would bring strangers to my room?”

“Now now, mother,” Mycroft says from his guard-like position at the door. “You remember me saying that Sherlock would come with his new bonded mate. This is Doctor John Watson.”

John bumps his hand gently against Sherlock’s, uncurling his fingers and offering his open palm to Sherlock. To his surprise, Sherlock withdraws his hand and flicks an irritated glance at John before looking back to his mother with the same hard, unforgiving eyes.

That’ll be the real Sherlock, then, John thinks. Disappointment slides like a knife through his stomach, cold and sharp-edged. He told himself he wouldn’t allow this situation to give him any false notions about their relationship. It would seem that he’s failed.

John attempts a reassuring smile. “Hello,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. What should I call you?”

Matters of etiquette are startlingly easy to get wrong when speaking to an Alpha or Omega, particularly one from an older generation, and he’s sussed from Sherlock’s mother’s scent that she’s an Omega.

As far as honorifics go, any Alpha might go by the prefix _Stes_ (or St. when written down). An older Omega is usually offended _not_ to have the prefix _Menos_ or Mn. attached to their name, while a more modern, progressive Omega might take offence at being referred to thusly _._ No one ever refers to Sherlock as Menos Holmes, except for Sergeant Donovan when she wants to needle him with something other than ‘freak’. Anderson probably thinks of him that way too, but unlike Donovan he doesn’t dare say it aloud.

Sherlock’s mother waves a dismissive hand, not looking John in the eyes as she rummages about in the bedcovers, apparently looking for something. “Oh, just call me Violet, I can’t stand formalities these days. Life is too short for such things.”

“Yours especially,” Sherlock mutters. “How long do you have left this time, Mother?”

John watches as Violet stops her search (there was clearly nothing to find) and looks up at Sherlock with a wounded expression. Sherlock’s own dispassionate expression doesn’t change and she looks down and away, scratching at a patch of skin on her wrist that already looks red and inflamed. She mumbles nonsense to herself for a few moments and Sherlock vibrates with barely-contained annoyance at his side.

“Speak up,” he orders. “I can’t hear you. Have you nothing further to say to me or my bonded?”

Violet only scratches harder at her own skin. John’s fingers spasm at his sides with the effort of not going to her and prying her arms apart.

“Oh for God’s _sake_ ,” Sherlock says, striding towards the window. “It’s too dark in here.”

“No,” Violet says, her compulsive scratching ceased as she holds out both hands to Sherlock beseechingly. “No, darling, it hurts me, you know it does! Please!”

“It would do you some good,” Sherlock says, but he stops heading towards the window.

Violet relaxes, falling back down into the pillows, arms loose at her sides. “My son is bonded at last,” she says, her voice calm again. The sudden change is almost whiplash-inducing. Horrifically, it reminds John of Moriarty. “What wonderful news. Let me see you together again, stand side by side.”

John gives Sherlock a questioning look and Sherlock shuts his eyes briefly, shaking his head before coming back to the foot of the bed to stand beside John. He’s completely rigid, and John realises that if anyone’s going to give this game away, it’ll be Sherlock at this point. The approaching heat can’t be helping, he must be feeling pretty uncomfortable in his own skin right about now. When John first asked Daniel to explain what heat felt like at the beginning, he always said it was like being trapped, like being kept in a container that was too small, too hot, too close.

Sherlock is always like that anyway, a larger than life presence, a body (transport, Sherlock would say) too small to contain his brilliance.

It must ache, John supposes, and he then aches himself with the need to comfort and protect. Sherlock must already be releasing pheromones that are enhancing John’s Alpha nature. Fucking biology.

He reaches down again for Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock doesn’t deny him this time, his grip tight and clammy. It’s painful, but he knows Sherlock is in worse pain at this moment in time. John can take it.

“A doctor,” Violet breathes, “how marvellous. Oh, and a soldier too.” John starts. That sounded like a deduction. He’d assumed Sherlock and Mycroft’s father had been the one to teach them that particular skill, perhaps he’d got it wrong.

“What a beautiful contradiction,” Violet continues, raising a hand to absently stroke a forefinger across her lips. Her pale eyes flick from John to Sherlock and John breathes a sigh of relief. Her stare was even more penetrating than Sherlock’s familiar head-to-toe strip-search. “Tell me, Sherlock, do you love him very much?”

John’s heart races at her whispered question, his face flushing. Autonomic system, he thinks, his body is just betraying him. He can rationalise it, but it’s a completely _irrational_ response and he hates it.

At his side, pressed close to him, Sherlock swallows. “Very much,” he replies, equally hushed in the otherwise silent room.

Violet tucks her head into the palm of her hand and closes her eyes. She sighs as if she were savouring Sherlock’s words. “You do, don’t you.”

It isn’t a question and she can’t see him, but Sherlock nods anyway, with a slight quiver of his jaw as he does.

She opens her eyes. “Go now,” she says harshly, her wistful, whispery voice gone. “You and your brother both. I wish to speak with John alone.”

Sherlock looks to John immediately. His brow is furrowed, his mouth shaped in a displeased downward curve. John doesn’t know what to do but shrug and nod. He wants to hear what she has to say.

“It’s okay,” John says.

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment and John is nearly at the limit of how long he can hold his breath for when Sherlock nods back and releases him.

“All right,” he says, but he doesn’t sound at all happy with the arrangement. “I needed to speak with Mycroft anyway.”

“Do you really?” comes Mycroft’s interested voice from the doorway.

“About the insulation,” Sherlock says, but his voice is off somehow. John is an adept Sherlock-handler and he has a sibling of his own – he knows a pointed lie that says _I actually mean something else but there are other people here_ when he hears it.

 _Insulation_. That must mean the rooms of the house are pheromone-insulated. With Sherlock’s heat almost upon them, that will be a godsend. Sherlock can seal himself away and John will still have higher mental functions, he won’t feel the need to mate and bond with Sherlock. Or, rather, he won’t be consumed by that impulse due to pheromones, at least.

“Of course,” Mycroft says genially. “We’ll go to your room and make sure things are in order. John, I’ll return to show you to the room after you’re finished here.”

The room? Sherlock’s room? He opens his mouth to say he can’t be around Sherlock when his heat comes on and falters when Mycroft tips his head to one side and gives him an exasperated look.

Oh.

 _Shit_. Fuck, shit, _fuck_.

They’re meant to be bonded, why on earth would he _not_ go to Sherlock’s room and see him through his heat?

“Ah, right I-” John flaps a hand awkwardly. “Thanks?”

Mycroft’s only reply is to bow his head in concession, but John could _swear_ he saw him roll his eyes.

“Come along, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gives him one last (obviously meaningful, completely uninterpretable) look and then the brothers leave. John blows out a long, anxious breath when the door closes, taking Sherlock’s ever-more alluring scent with it. Insulation was a genius invention; it was just a shame it was so goddamn expensive.

A sick swooping sensation makes itself known in the pit of John’s stomach. He’s tried not to think about this (stupid, _stupid_ ), but there are expectations placed upon them because of the lies they’ve been telling. What are they going to do now? He can’t help Sherlock through this, they aren’t like that. They’re going to have to admit to their deception, that’s the only way out. Sherlock wanted to pretend they were bonded for his family (for reasons John still doesn’t fully understand), but telling them won’t be the end of the world.

“So,” Violet’s voice breaks him from his increasingly panicked thoughts, “you’re a liar.”

John jumps at the unexpected accusation. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, not about your feelings,” Violet continues, pushing herself up into a seated position. Her voice is louder and firmer now, her eyes fully open. It’s like she’s dropped _her_ act. “You want to be his mate, but I can tell that you aren’t.”

“How?” There’s no point denying it any longer, is there?

“There’s an edge of pain in his eyes when he looks at you.” Her voice has taken on a whimsical, lilting quality. “It’s not from being unhappily bonded to you. It’s from _not_ being bonded to you at all.”

“Sherlock doesn’t want to be bonded,” John tells her, the words steady, his back straight with certainty.

Violet smiles at him, her wrinkled mouth curving in a way that isn’t dissimilar to the way Sherlock’s does when he’s not faking it. “I can tell what my son looks like when he’s in love with someone.”

“You’ve seen it before?” John thinks back to his and Sherlock’s conversation on the train.

Violet scowls. Her whole demeanour is completely different now her sons are gone. John knows where Sherlock gets his acting skills from. He wants to confront her about her lies, but he can’t help being more invested in the conversation they’re already having.

“Admittedly, no.”

“So when he told me that he’s wanted two people in his life, you don’t know anything about that?”

“Not a thing.” Violet considers him for a moment. “I think I would have known, if it were true. Mycroft would have reported something like that to me.”

“So you’re saying that Sherlock lied to me? Sherlock doesn’t tell Mycroft anything, you know.”

“No,” Violet says, drawing the word out as if John was particularly stupid. He probably is to her, he supposes. “But Sherlock would not be able to hide such a marked deviation from his previous patterns. Not from Mycroft, and not from me. As evidenced tonight. Was that what he said to you, two people? Of which you were not one?”

Well, no. John thinks back properly. _Have you ever wanted to_ be _with anyone_ , John had asked. And Sherlock had answered with _Twice_. That didn’t mean two people, it meant two occasions, if John were to take it literally. If Sherlock took the question literally, which he probably did. And it didn’t discount John.

“I can see that you’re rethinking your previous stance,” Violet drawls, letting herself sink back down the bed. “I’m hoping for a favourable outcome in this, John. He has feelings for you, you have feelings for him. This should be simple.”

John can’t help but think this entire situation is anything but simple. “And why do you care so much? I doubt it’s your deep-seated desire to be a mother-in-law.”

“Think what you will. I want my son to be happy. I don’t want him to end up like me: betrayed, bitter and alone. Making up stories so that people will pay attention to him, protect him and care for him like an Alpha should be doing.”

She turns her head away, pressing her face hard into her pillow while John looks on, unsure what to say next.

Sherlock had used the past tense when speaking about his father. That didn’t necessarily mean that he was dead, it could mean that he dissolved his bond with Sherlock’s mother and left. Unbonding is extremely rare, but it does happen. It’s not rare just because it’s frowned upon (which is putting public opinion of unbonding lightly), but because it’s difficult, lengthy, and _dangerous_ to separate your soul from someone else’s. Unbonding is rarely a mutual choice and it always leaves one party (usually the Omega) feeling heartbroken and unworthy. Tossed aside by the one they hold in highest regard. Betrayed, bitter and alone as Violet had put it.

John shudders with revulsion at the very thought of the process of unbonding. He regrets not skipping the lectures at university when they had been optional. Unbonding _is_ safer these days now it’s legal and medically controlled, no longer the last hope of the desperate, but it’s still loathsome. Anyone who chose to specialise in that field was ostracised without question in John’s day, and even now there’s a heavy stigma attached to the profession – _only weirdoes want to be Unbonders_.

John suspects he’s just met his first Unbonded.

When Violet whispers “leave me now”, John doesn’t wait to be asked twice.


	4. Chapter 4

John doesn’t wait for Mycroft. As he walks through the house in something of a daze, he happens across a helpful cousin ( _too_ helpful, naturally) who points him in the direction of Sherlock’s room.

It’s probably not a good idea to go there, not with Sherlock so close to his heat, but where else is he going to go? He doesn’t really know anyone here besides Sherlock and Mycroft, and he doesn’t want to.

By the time he gets to Sherlock’s room, he’s in something of a mess, mentally speaking. He’s replayed countless previous interactions with Sherlock in the context of Sherlock’s mother’s words _I can tell what my son looks like when he’s in love with someone_ and everything he previously thought was concrete is crumbling. Nothing is clear anymore. Before Sherlock asked him to come home for Christmas with him, John was certain of where he stood with Sherlock. Sherlock was his best friend, and John just happened to have a hopeless, inconvenient infatuation with the man that he would never divulge to anyone.

That was fine with him, or thereabouts. He had a few superficial sexual relationships to fulfil that particular need, and every other need was filled by his relationship with Sherlock, despite Sherlock’s various failings as a friend. John never really minded those failings anyway.

Then Sherlock (in his typical emotionally dense way) had to go and throw a spanner in the works. Then Sherlock’s damn biology had to go and throw a whole fucking tool box in just to help out.

He’s behind that door now, the physical embodiment of John’s temptation and torment.

It’s madness to knock on the door and ask to be invited into that. John hesitates, and that’s when he hears Mycroft speak.

“So what you said…”

“Was true,” Sherlock says, and then, more quietly: “Don’t make me repeat it.”

“I think you’ll be disappointed. He won’t agree to it.”

“I fully expect to be disappointed,” Sherlock answers. “That was the plan all along, in fact.”

Listening in to private conversations is not something John normally does, but there’s something about hearing Sherlock and Mycroft talk without him present, something about the softness of their voices when no one else can hear them that makes John stop extending his fist towards the door. They’re not just sniping at one another, for a change.

“I see.” Mycroft says. “It’s a test then, is it? I must say, your manipulation has a level to it that I hadn’t imagined. I’m pleased you’ve thought it through in this way but I doubt John will be.”

There’s a pause in the conversation. John leans closer to the door in an attempt to catch any quieter exchanges, interest growing now his name has come up. He jumps back at a bang that sounds like a drawer being carelessly shoved closed. That’ll be Sherlock, he thinks, unable to stop the spread of a fond smile at being able to distinguish Sherlock’s casual movements from Mycroft’s deliberate ones.

“Yes, well, I’m sure he’ll be pleased enough with the outcome,” Sherlock says. “Give this to him tomorrow when I’m proved right, would you? I know how difficult it will be for you to keep your nose out of it, so I’m not even going to bother telling you not to read this.”

“Believe me, I’ve no desire to read whatever you might have written. My imagination is quite enough. Dr Watson’s imagination must be running wild out there in the meantime. Do come in, John, I was under the impression that you didn’t think too highly of spies.”

John feels a good proportion of his blood get redirected to his face and closes his eyes. Ah. That’s embarrassing.

He opens the door and finds Mycroft looking superior and Sherlock looking annoyed. Par for the course when it comes to the Holmes brothers, really.

His eyes drop to the piece of paper Mycroft is tucking into an inner pocket in his suit jacket – it must be the item they were referring to, the thing Sherlock didn’t want Mycroft to read.

It would probably be bad form to ask what it is, considering he’s just been called out on his eavesdropping.

“I-” John breaks off his attempt at defence. There’s no point.

He looks to Sherlock, taking in his tight jaw from where he’s gritting his teeth, the sheen of sweat across his forehead. It’s not annoyance borne out of John’s snooping or whatever just happened with Mycroft, it’s frustration borne out of burgeoning discomfort. Early heat is the worst. On a rational level, John feels sorry for Sherlock’s predicament. On a more basic level, John can’t stop thinking about how _good_ Sherlock smells to him right now, even at a distance.

“Are you okay?” he ends up asking.

In lieu of answering, Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Mycroft says. “I’m sure you have a lot to discuss.”

And with that he sweeps out of the room, ignoring the way Sherlock fixes a hard stare on his back as though he could somehow harm him with the force of it.

John turns his attention back to Sherlock when the door closes behind Mycroft. “I should probably go before your heat comes on.”

“No need,” Sherlock says, walking across the room to stand at the foot of the bed. “It’s not going to come on in the next five minutes. We have until tomorrow at the very least.”

Sherlock shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it across the chair at the desk. It is rather warm, John supposes, taking off his own jacket and taking in Sherlock’s bedroom.

It’s oddly reminiscent of Sherlock’s room at Baker Street. The furniture is arranged in almost exactly the same way – double bed to the left of the door, bedside tables with lamps on either side, chest of drawers to the left of the bed, desk under the window opposite. Sherlock probably modelled his room on this one, which is interesting.

There are marks from blu-tack on the walls, faded rectangles of wallpaper, holes where there were probably nails before. The things on the walls of Sherlock’s room at 221B – his martial arts certificates, his periodic table, newspaper clippings, the butterfly collection – most likely previously adorned these walls before he moved out. John doesn’t expect that he had posters of bands up or anything like a normal teenager might have.

The surfaces of Sherlock’s desk and chest of drawers are covered with the same sort of apparently meaningless bits and bobs that inhabit just about all the rooms of their London flat. Sherlock of course knows the meaning and use of every single object, though John has never asked him about 98% of them. Perhaps he should show more of an interest. There’s still such a lot he doesn’t know about Sherlock’s life before he came into it.

A bust of what might be Bach stares at him in much the same way that the skull normally does from the mantelpiece of their sitting room. It’s marginally less creepy.

“And what are we going to do tomorrow, then?” John asks.

He’s hoping the answer is give themselves up, wait out Sherlock’s heat here with Sherlock in isolation in his room, and then return to London. They can get back to their normal patterns and John can perhaps change a few of his slightly now he understands Sherlock a little better.

“Actually, I wanted to speak with you about that.”

John turns away from his staring match with the bust to look at Sherlock again. His questioning hum dies in his throat when he sees Sherlock has removed his shirt and his fingers are on his belt buckle.

“What-” John clears his throat and tries hard not to avert his eyes. That will give him away to Sherlock like nothing else. “Um, what are you doing?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him and pulls his belt free from his trousers. “Is it no longer usual practice to remove one’s clothes before getting into bed?”

“It’s only nine o’clock,” John blurts out after finding he had nothing better to say. He’s seen Sherlock shirtless and even naked a few times before, but this is somehow different. He’s not cleaning one of Sherlock’s wounds or helping him bathe after an injury, he’s in Sherlock’s childhood bedroom when Sherlock is on the cusp of heat. When they’re pretending to be a bonded couple who will share this heat together. It’s private, _intimate_ to watch Sherlock undress now.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock unfastens his trousers. It’s much too hot in the room; John needs air. The heating must be on a high setting, John thinks. It’s December, for God’s sake, it shouldn’t be this bloody hot. He pulls at his own shirt collar, discomfited.

“It’s been a long day,” Sherlock says. “I’m tired.”

John laughs, dismayed when it comes out with a hysterical edge. “You mean you’re going to sleep?”

Sherlock pushes his trousers down his thighs. He sits down on the edge of the bed to pull them off along with his socks. John can’t help but notice he’s wearing black briefs identical to the ones he was wearing in his bedroom at Baker Street when they tried out the first bonded scent and oh, oh it’s not a good idea to take a stroll down that particular memory lane because he knows where _that_ ends.

Sherlock looks up from his feet to meet John’s eyes again. “Unless there’s something else I could be doing without my clothes on in my bed?”

A dry clicking sound from his throat is the only answer John can produce. Did Sherlock really just say that? And was it an innuendo? Was it a _proposition?_ The way Sherlock asked that question wasn’t unthinking or naïve, his voice was… there’s no other word for it, his voice was _seductive._ John has never heard anything like it from Sherlock before.

Alarm bells start to ring in his head. Sherlock’s heat is approaching rapidly and an increase in sexualised behaviour is to be expected. Stripping and flirting aren’t exactly unusual symptoms in an Omega who’s mere hours away from begging to be fucked, are they? If anything, they’re signs that he should definitely get out now if he wants to avoid the inevitable moment when Sherlock loses enough capacity that he won’t really be able to make decisions about what he does and doesn’t want. Christ, but _he_ doesn’t want to leave Sherlock now, not for anything.

“Sherlock, I don’t think-”

Sherlock waves a hand irritably. “Stop thinking, John, watching the effort is making my nausea worse. Let’s just go to sleep and we’ll deal with my heat tomorrow morning when we’re both refreshed.”

Crises do always tend to bring out the doctor in John, and he latches onto the first part of what Sherlock just said because this absolutely qualifies as a crisis. “You’re feeling sick? Have you taken anything for it?” Then the rest of Sherlock’s words catch up to him. “Wait,” he says. “What do you mean ‘ _let’s_ go to sleep’? Where am I going to sleep?”

Sherlock frowns at him from the bed. “With me,” he says, drawing out the words. “Here, obviously. Unless you were planning on bunking with Uncle Frederick?”

John is too preoccupied with the first statement to even feel a moment’s disgust over the last.

“I thought you were happy with the deception part of this trip,” Sherlock says, still frowning.

“You mean you want us to carry on pretending we’re bonded? Your family are going to find out that we aren’t pretty soon tomorrow when I don’t spend your heat with you!”

“We’ll get to that tomorrow, like I said.” Sherlock’s words are getting sharper. He’s losing patience. “Just come to bed, John.”

There’s a low swooping sensation in John’s stomach at that. They’re words he’s wanted to hear from Sherlock for some time. It wouldn’t hurt, would it? Not if he was gone before Sherlock’s heat really took hold. He could have this: a night in Sherlock’s bed, close enough to breathe in his scent, permitted to look but not touch. It might get something out of his system, though he doubts it.

Sherlock sighs heavily when John doesn’t move or answer him. “Look, there’s something I want to discuss with you, but not tonight. I’m exhausted, I feel awful, and I just want to sleep before I have to go through this whole bloody ordeal tomorrow. So stay and we’ll talk in the morning.”

He pulls the covers back from the bed and climbs in, putting his back to John and leaving the covers open for John to get in beside him.

They’ve shared a bed only once before. Usually, if they have to travel for a case and they manage to get a room with just one bed, then John gets the bed and Sherlock stays up pacing and reading and going through photographs and notes for the case.

One time though, trains back to London were being delayed by heavy snow and they ended up having to stay a night longer than expected. Sherlock had been running on fumes even as he solved the case and he was practically falling asleep on the threshold as soon as they got back to the hotel and into the only room remaining – a double.

John spent an uncomfortable, sleepless night with Sherlock dead to the world at his side and trying on three (three!) separate occasions to roll over in his sleep onto John’s side of the bed. He gently pushed Sherlock and his sprawling limbs away each time and ended up in the en suite bathroom where he engaged in some very repressed, very unsatisfying masturbation, and then fell asleep sitting against the bathtub. His back hurt for a week after.

He doesn’t expect to fare much better tonight. It’s going to be worse, surely.

Shaking his head at himself, John bends to take off his shoes and then begins to unbutton his shirt. He’s an idiot, Sherlock is completely right.

He can’t regret the decision to stay though, not when Sherlock utters a low “thank you” as John eases himself down into the bed and stretches out beside Sherlock, being careful to keep a good distance between them. The gratitude isn’t entirely surprising – John had already picked up on the hidden meaning in Sherlock’s request that he stay. Other than his first heat, there probably hasn’t been a time in his life when Sherlock has been more vulnerable. Even though Sherlock must rationally know that the house’s insulation will prevent any passing Alphas (and there can’t be many) flocking to the place, he’s still seeking John’s protection as he rests the night before his heat.

Considering that John himself is an Alpha, that says a lot about how much Sherlock really must trust him. It certainly means a great deal to John and the overwhelming sense of purpose makes his heart thud slowly, calmly in his chest even as Sherlock turns over and moves towards him.

Sherlock is deliberately not touching him, but he’s close enough that only a minute shift would have them pressed together from head to toe.

“I lied on the train, you know,” Sherlock says, reaching an arm back behind himself to switch off the bedside lamp, casting the room into darkness but for the glow of the moon through the window. Sherlock hates having the curtains closed. That makes more sense now.

“What about?”

“I’ve lied about almost everything, John.  I’ve made generalisations and I haven’t expounded on the exceptions. Take my heat, for example. I can think of an instance in which I wouldn’t find it half as distasteful as I always say I would.”

The moonlight is selective as it illuminates Sherlock’s pale face on the pillow next to his, his strange contours are highlighted, the minor flaws obscured. John’s heart loses its tranquil resting rate in the face of Sherlock’s words and the stubborn tilt of his chin, the tension radiating off of his body, the fiercely demanding air he has about him as he looks at John.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Sherlock asks abruptly.

John can only gape at him.

"You can,” Sherlock carries on, “if you want to. I’ve wondered what it must be like. People seem to be so fond of the activity, it must hold _some_ merit.”

With startling clarity, John realises that his lips have become drier than the Sahara. If he licks them, would that be like an invitation? “You mean you’ve never kissed anyone?”

It’s skirting around the real issue to ask that, he knows, but it’s still important.

The covers lift and drop as Sherlock shrugs beneath them. “It held no interest before.”

That’ll be the heat talking then. John shouldn’t be disappointed, but that one word, that _before_ confirms everything. All of this is because of Sherlock’s heat, he mustn’t forget that. He mustn’t take advantage of that. Sherlock would hate the way his body is making him behave, the things it’s making him say.

“You told me you’ve wanted to be with someone twice before in your life, you’re telling me it didn’t interest you then?”

Sherlock scoffs. “The first instance was my first heat. I wanted to be with _anyone_ when that happened, and kissing wasn’t really on my mind.”

“And what about the second instance? I assumed that was-” John pauses. He’s not said her name in years. “I assume that was Irene Adler?”

The expression on Sherlock’s face is priceless. He looks at once affronted, shocked, and mildly disgusted.

“I see you understood nothing of my interest in her,” he says. “While her interest in me was partly physical, mine was purely respect for her mind and the way she used physicality as an extension of that. Her domineering ways were fascinating, even for an Alpha, and she was quite remarkable, but I never wanted to be with her in that way.”

Hope flutters and rises from John’s chest to his throat. “So… what about the second-”

“John, even you can’t be this dense,” Sherlock cuts him off briskly and, without further ado, he leans forward and presses his lips against John’s.

The kiss is clumsy – it’s a brief, dry meeting of closed mouths with open eyes. Meeting is probably too evocative of communion and reciprocation, in fact. It’s more of a… a bump. When he recovers from his disbelief at the gesture, John takes a moment to get over how obvious and endearing Sherlock’s inexperience is.

Sherlock can’t have seen too many people kissing in his life if he _honestly_ thought that was what he should do, which brings to mind ridiculous images of Sherlock watching romantic comedies and trying to surreptitiously observe people snogging…

This must be what it feels like when your last shreds of sanity abandon you.

Abandon him they have though, because he knows it’s not a good idea to give Sherlock a lesson in the art of kissing, but God help him, John’s going to do just that.

When Sherlock goes to pull away with a grimace, John slides a hand around the nape of his neck to keep him near. He smiles, feeling confident and relaxed. This is his area.

“Like this,” he whispers, closing his eyes to encourage Sherlock to do the same, and brings their lips together again.

Sherlock’s mouth, for all that it should be _made_ for kissing, is still firm and unyielding, and so it’s still awkward. Determined, John tilts his head and lets his tongue trace along Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock mouth parts as he gives a short gasp in surprise at the sensation and that gives John his opportunity. He gently pulls Sherlock’s bottom lip between his and feels one of Sherlock’s hands come up to hesitantly splay along his neck. Warmth spreads through him and John thinks _I could do this forever and it would be enough._

He takes his time brushing soft, shallow kisses across Sherlock’s mouth and cheek and chin and throat, and he savours the moment when he feels Sherlock become pliant against him. Sherlock’s hands move to cup John’s jaw and there’s something so beautifully helpless about the gesture, as if Sherlock were finally letting go, just letting it happen.

Sherlock is like a furnace, his palms feverish on John’s face. He’s edged closer, legs entwined with John’s now, their chests flush. Every inch of his skin is burning up, and John can’t imagine ever letting him go, not even if he burns them both to cinders.

The realisation that there are pheromones in the air is the thing that makes him break their kiss. Paradoxically, it makes his mind clear: he needs to get out and he needs to get out fast. Sherlock’s mouth chases his, a quiet whine of dissatisfaction escaping when John cranes his neck to avoid him.

“John, don’t stop. I don’t feel right. Please, don’t stop. It’s helping.”

So Sherlock’s heat is almost upon them. His estimate was wrong once again – they’re not going to get until morning at this rate. They’ve probably got an hour at most.

How could Sherlock get it so wrong twice?

John regretfully pulls himself out of Sherlock’s grip, darting from the bed and across to the door, picking up his trousers and shirt as he goes. What was he thinking getting into bed with Sherlock, kissing him like that? Sherlock isn’t far enough along that he can blame it solely on his hormones either, it was just plain stupidity.

He’ll leave without redressing or looking back, he decides. He just needs to get away from Sherlock’s intoxicating scent before he does something they’ll both regret.

Sherlock’s voice stops him in his tracks. “John, I’m going to need you. I _do_ need you, so you can’t leave me. You never have before, don’t start now.”

John shuts his eyes and grips the door handle firmly. He can’t look back. This isn’t Sherlock; Sherlock would never say these things. Sherlock would hate him if he allowed anything to happen between them that Sherlock wasn’t in his right mind to permit.

Sherlock would hate him, and he couldn’t bear that.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he shuts Sherlock in.

Alone.

  
  
\--  
  


John ends up falling asleep against the door. There had been nowhere else for him to go, and the Alpha in him wouldn’t let Sherlock’s door remain unguarded. Neither would any other part of him.

He straightens his back with a wince when he wakes. It’s hard to say whether the night he spent resting against a bathtub in Norwich was more or less comfortable. Norwich probably wins because Sherlock hadn’t been in fucking heat then.

“Good morning, John.”

Ah, so that’ll be what woke him. John looks up at Mycroft, who is standing over him with an amiable sort of look to match the sentiment he just expressed. It’s disturbing. John rubs at his left eye with the heel of his hand. It’s too early for this. Probably. What _is_ the time, anyway?

“It’s eight-thirty; the guests won’t be up for another couple of hours at least. Some of them won’t be up before _midday_. ”

Mind-reading Holmes brothers will be the death of him, they really will. The thought occurs that some of Sherlock’s relatives may have passed him last night on the way to their own rooms and probably wondered what the hell he was doing snoozing against the door to Sherlock’s room. He almost laughs at the idea of them gossiping over some imagined lovers’ spat.

“I take it you refused my brother when he threw himself at you? He must be in full heat now if you’re out here.” Mycroft tuts and shakes his head. “He’ll be most irritated with himself for that miscalculation. Still, the outcome is the same. He was right.”

Mycroft doesn’t seem to understand that John has just spent hours sitting against a slab of wood, he’s still tired, his body is exhibiting several aches and pains to express how much it dislikes sitting against slabs of wood, he’s sexually frustrated (even with the insulation, because this is _Sherlock_ and _heat_ , for God’s sake, and one man can only take so much), mentally drained, and emotionally something-he-can’t-pick-a-word-for. Confused, maybe.

Now is not the time for cryptic musings, or John might just deck him.

“Right about what?”

“You,” Mycroft says, nodding at him. “We’ll talk in my study in about an hour. I’ll show you to one of the spare guest rooms with a bathroom so you can… compose yourself first.”

John wants to insist on Mycroft explaining here and now, but the urges to piss, shower, and maybe even have a wank are pretty damn strong.

He gives the door a last mournful glance. Blessedly, Sherlock remained silent after John left him. John hopes he went to sleep and that he didn’t just lie there miserable all night. John hopes he’s _still_ asleep, not waking up to the sort of uncomfortable desperation and need that are going to consume him for the next couple of days.

“Lead the way,” he says.

  
  
\--  
  


Mycroft’s study is smaller and cosier than John was expecting. The fireplace is the focal point of the room with two leather armchairs on either side of it that remind John with a pang of his and Sherlock’s chairs at Baker Street, inclined towards each other. He wonders who normally sits in the other chair in the study.

“Sherlock asked me to give this to you in the event of his heat,” Mycroft says, extending something in John’s direction.

It wasn’t a piece of paper at all that Sherlock gave to Mycroft last night. It’s an envelope. John takes it with a small amount of caution, suspicious of the bland smile on Mycroft’s face. He flips the envelope and finds it still sealed. Mycroft’s powers do probably stretch to opening a letter undetectably though.

“I haven’t read it,” Mycroft says. Damn Holmes brothers, John thinks. “But I do know my brother and thus I know what is contained inside.”

A missive instructing him to keep away at all costs while Sherlock is in this condition, no doubt.  Perhaps a warning of the violence that will be perpetrated against him if he does not.

John slips a finger under the sealed edge of the envelope to tear it open and takes out the letter. He feels the back of his neck go hot as he reads, particularly with Mycroft watching. _Particularly_ with Mycroft watching and wearing that shrewd, self-satisfied smirk.

_John,_

_There is every chance that our newly intimate circumstances and my lack of suppressants will trigger my heat, despite the window of opportunity I told you we would be afforded. If so, please understand that you have my informed consent for everything that may transpire between us. This includes bonding, which I consider to be almost a formality at this point. My consent does not extend to procreation, however, so I would be grateful if you would remember this in your lust-driven animalistic state._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

The letter is signed and dated. John stares at it in confusion.

He could be wrong – he _must_ be wrong – but he could swear Sherlock just gave him awkward but undeniable written permission to go share his heat and bond with him.

“I expect he included the date,” Mycroft says.

The letter is dated 20th December. The day before they tried Sherlock’s first attempt at synthesising their bonded scent. Before any exposure to pheromones, before any confounding factors. Sherlock gave his approval _before_ any of this, when he was still (arguably) in his right mind, in full possession of his faculties.

Inference: Sherlock wanted him before this heat.

_This includes bonding, which I consider to be almost a formality at this point._

Conclusion: Sherlock wanted him for a long time before this heat.

The words swim and jumble in front of John’s eyes as he looks down at the paper again, not blinking. Why did he never say anything?

“I see you understand the relevance then,” Mycroft says.

“So the way he was last night, that wasn’t just the heat talking?”

Mycroft looks down and studies his nails. They're impeccable, of course. “Sherlock meant to test you. He wanted to see if you would take advantage just because he’s an Omega and you were given to understand that he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to gain a measure of the type of Alpha you are – you know Sherlock, he couldn’t stand being attached to someone who saw him as nothing more than a possession or, God forbid, a _toy_.”

John winces at the very idea. That sounds like Sherlock. He remembers Sherlock’s outburst about feeling like a pet, his thinly-veiled bitterness when he said _Omega belongs to Alpha, not the other way around_.

“What if I hadn’t refused?”

Mycroft spreads his hands and lifts his shoulders. “Sherlock was certain your principles wouldn’t allow it. Hence the letter which I expect contains explicit consent?”

John gives a mute nod. “But if he was so certain, why test me at all?”

_Why not just speak to me like a rational adult?_ Like that would ever happen.

Mycroft tilts his head and raises his eyebrows pointedly. John huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Let me guess,” he says. “He was bored?”

“That, and I believe he was thinking of it less as a test, and more as a… test drive. This trip was intended to be an insight into bonded life. Sherlock just didn’t expect it to be cut so short by his heat. It's quite extraordinary, he must be _very_ taken with you for it to come on so quickly that it surprised even him.”

A thrill of desire and anticipation runs up John’s spine at the insinuation that Sherlock could want him that much.

“But this has still all worked out remarkably well,” Mycroft continues. “It’s far too late to transfer Sherlock elsewhere, and I take it you’ll be staying now?”

Of course he’s staying; Sherlock wants him here for this. Bloody hell, Sherlock _wants_ him.

More than that: Sherlock needs him. John sways on the spot as he thinks it, as he remembers Sherlock saying those words just last night.

He can picture it easily – Sherlock upstairs in his room, his alluring pheromones locked in with him, the room filled with his scent as he lies curled up on the bed, naked and frustrated, fingers or a heat aid inside him and _begging_ the ceiling and walls for John to come up and fill him properly, his eyes tightly shut as he chases release that won’t find him.

John could give it to him. Repeatedly, as many times as he needed it and more. John _should_ be giving it to him, right now.

He’s got a piece of paper in his hand to that effect, and he’s stood here making small talk with Mycroft? Where are his priorities?

“Yes, I’m-”

“Say no more,” Mycroft holds up a hand, and John is absurdly relieved that he does – this is far more of a conversation than he _ever_ wanted to have with anyone over Sherlock (over _sex with Sherlock_ ), let alone with Sherlock’s own brother of all people. “I’ll see to it that myself and the other guests are gone within the next half hour. They’ll understand.” He pauses and looks thoughtful, right index finger tapping at his lower lip. “They’ll probably be only too happy to leave you two lovebirds to it, in fact.”

To suppress the wave of hot, guilty embarrassment that notion produces, John asks about the person Mycroft has neglected to mention: “What about your mother?”

“Oh, she’ll be ecstatic at the idea of coming to stay with me for a few days where she can complain non-stop and extract more information about the two of you. Tell Sherlock he’ll have to owe me one for that. _Again_.”

Fantastic, another favour for Mycroft. It was ‘owing one’ to Mycroft that got them here in the first place.

Perhaps John should feel a little bit grateful for that, actually. Considering what awaits him upstairs, the fulfilment of his every hope and desire for the last _year_ , he should be extremely grateful.

He feels overcome as he thinks it: he’s going to bond with Sherlock. He won’t be able to stop himself, not now he knows Sherlock wants it too…

“I would advise you to use the next half hour wisely, John,” Mycroft says suddenly, cutting into John’s spiralling thoughts. “I can already see your Alpha side is coming out to blind you. Don’t go to Sherlock immediately; spend some time thinking about whether this truly is what you want. As I said, I know my brother, and I know he wouldn’t consider this with anyone else. Would you?”

Would he want to bond with anyone other than Sherlock? No, of course not, there’s no one else for him and there never will be. There won’t ever be another Sherlock.

When Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s, John almost went under. He almost let himself be swallowed by the tide of regret and loneliness and separation. The only reason he didn’t was because he still felt it. There was something inside him, scratching away in his brain, tugging at his heart, thrumming in his veins, and all it ever said to him was that Sherlock was still alive.

In all his life, he’s never felt so connected to another person. Sherlock was right – of course they have a bond. Just because they haven’t had sex or confirmed it with a cursory bite, they still belong to each other as much as two people can. He can still see Sherlock with his eyes closed; he can hear Sherlock’s whispered voice over every other shout in a crowded room. He can still feel Sherlock’s touch when they’re miles apart, like a brand overlaying every inch of his skin.

That’s the kind of thing that doesn’t end. It might fade or get overshadowed for a brief time, but it never goes out. Even reduced to ashes it would still glow and smoulder, endlessly being rekindled to burn more brightly, more fiercely than before.

For all their differences, their heated arguments and cold silences, their misunderstandings and miscommunications, Sherlock is his perfect match.

Sherlock is _him,_ his mirror, complement and foil. A closer companion than his own shadow, and the sun of his universe, whether he means to be or not. He smiles as he thinks of the gaps in Sherlock’s knowledge. Whether he can _comprehend_ what that means or not.

He looks up to answer Mycroft and finds Mycroft looking back at him with something like approval.

He’ll never be entirely convinced that Mycroft _can’t_ read his thoughts. Sherlock has demonstrated on multiple occasions that he can’t, but Mycroft is always another story.

“I wouldn’t,” John says, the words imbued with conviction.

The usual storm clouds of suspicion and wilful misdirection on Mycroft’s face part, clearing to reveal a smile John has only ever seen once – aimed at Sherlock when it was his turn to lay unconscious in hospital. John had watched from the doorway to the private side room, holding his breath as he saw Mycroft slowly comb his hand through his brother’s lank, greasy curls against the pillow. Naturally, Mycroft then said something nonchalant to let John know that he was aware of his presence, but John likes to think he wasn’t aware at the start, when he first began the gesture.

“I thought as much,” Mycroft says. “I’ll see to Mother and the guests then. I would still advise that you use the next half hour to think about this, however certain you may be. I’ll let you know when everyone is ready to leave.”

Mycroft gets up from his armchair and silently leaves the room.

John picks up his forgotten cup of tea that Mycroft gave him on first leading him into the study. He absently swirls the liquid around the cup before raising it to his lips and swallowing the remainder of the drink.

Half an hour. Half an hour of leaving Sherlock to his own devices. Quite literally, no doubt. Thirty minutes of cruelly leaving an Omega in heat to attend to himself. Eighteen hundred seconds of trying to ignore his own response to that now Mycroft has left the room.

It’s a wrench, it really is. Sherlock must be up there, writhing and urgent, wondering why John hasn’t come to him yet when he knows Mycroft must have given him the letter by now. Does he still have the presence of mind to wonder if he’s been rejected again?

Of course he does, this is Sherlock. Heat doesn’t _completely_ rob you of higher mental function, it just makes it seem much less important compared to the biological drive to copulate.

Even without catching Sherlock's altered scent now that he's in heat, John's Alpha side really is making itself known in a simmering build-up of lust, dominance and jealousy. He soon has to unbutton and unzip his jeans to make himself more comfortable, sighing as he relieves the pressure, but he doesn’t push his hand inside. Can’t have Mycroft come back to him wanking over what he’s about to do to his baby brother. He never did get to take the edge off in the shower – Mycroft’s knock at the door interrupted him, not to mention the effective mood killer that it served as.

He allows himself one caress of the firm line of his cock in his underwear with the tip of his index finger.

It feels far too amazing for such a light stroke. He can only imagine how much better everything will feel in Sherlock’s bedroom – the thought alone is obscenely arousing: fucking Sherlock, knotting in him and eventually bonding with him in his childhood bedroom – when it’s Sherlock’s hand on him, Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock’s…

He gasps in a few deep, shaky breaths and takes his hand away from himself, finding it slightly wet with precome. He’s already leaking through his pants. This is ridiculous; he should just go upstairs and take his Omega in full hearing of his extended family. Fuck politeness and etiquette, he’ll show them all that Sherlock is _his_ , that their opinions and snide comments mean nothing because he loves Sherlock for his every achievement and failing, and they will never, _never_ understand or know him the way John does.

And they are missing so much.

_Not long now, Sherlock,_ he thinks desperately, looking upwards as if his thoughts could reach Sherlock the same way Sherlock’s longing seems to be calling out to him.

  
  
\--  
  


In the end, he calms down somewhat, sorting out his clothes and his breathing so that when Mycroft returns it doesn’t look like John is a sex-crazed pervert masturbating in his study.

Mycroft must see his flush when he enters the room, but John _is_ sat quite near to the fireplace.

Besides, it’s not as though the entire Holmes family doesn’t know by now what’s about to happen. Delicacy in these matters is hard to come by considering how obvious their biology tends to make them.

Mycroft hands him a small sheet of off-white tablets and John feels more blood rush into his face. Birth control. Sherlock did ask him to sort that out. Thank God for Mycroft’s prudence, awkward though it may be.

“We’ll be off now,” Mycroft says, back straight, no trace of embarrassment in his face or voice. “Do take care of my brother, Dr Watson. I’ve no need to repeat the consequences that might befall you if you do not. Partly because I have every confidence in the strength of the bond you’re about to form.”

John blinks. It’s a humbling, unexpected thing to hear. Perhaps he’s going mad? Yearning can do that to you.

“Welcome to the family,” Mycroft continues, ignoring John’s perturbed expression, “and a very Merry Christmas to you both. I trust you’ll relay the sentiment to my brother.”

“I will,” John manages to say, clutching the pills in his clammy palm for something to hold onto in this bizarre moment. The foil sheet crinkles in his grip. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

Mycroft flashes a satisfied smirk at him, takes his umbrella from where it’s perched against the chair he had previously occupied, and leaves the room again.

John flinches when he hears the front door slam and the realisation hits him that he is now alone in the house with Sherlock in heat.

It’s time he did something about that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the amazing comments! One more part after this one. This part? Basically just unapologetic porn.

When he reaches Sherlock’s door, he’s fully hard again. Sherlock’s Omega scent may be contained inside his room with him because of that damnable insulation, but the expectation is more than enough. Once again, he has to undo his trousers but this time he just _has_ to plunge his hand inside his underwear to curl his fingers around himself.

He can hear the noises from inside Sherlock’s room: the fast, slick sounds of Sherlock trying to satisfy himself to no avail, his soft groans at the possibility of release, the frustrated gasping when it is denied to him.

John thunks his head against the wood of Sherlock’s door, speeding up his stroke as he pictures Sherlock stretched out, naked on his bed on the other side of this last barrier between them and just _desperate_. Desperate for him. He’s not really let himself dwell on the idea of Sherlock in heat before, but of course now it’s all he can think about, as consuming as it would be if he _could_ smell Sherlock.

Distracted though he is, he’s attuned enough to notice when the noises from Sherlock stop. John forces himself to still his own hand and listen properly.

“John?” Sherlock’s muffled voice sounds through the door. “Oh God, please, _please_ let that be you. If it’s Mycroft, you can piss off and you can _make_ John come up here. I don’t give a damn anymore whether he wants this, just open the door and let him smell me and then he won’t care either!”

John chuckles, rubbing his cheek against a panel of the door for no reason that he can identify. Probably the need to get in there and just rub himself all over Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock moans his name in that low, decadent voice of his, “of course it’s you. Why aren’t you coming in? You must know that I want you. Please, John, don’t keep me waiting, it’s intolerable.”

Somehow, hearing Sherlock say all that to him is more arousing than any mental image he could conjure and he grasps the door handle with his free hand, but he doesn’t want to open the door just yet.

He remembers Irene Adler saying she could get Sherlock to beg her for mercy, _twice_. He remembers Sherlock’s vehemence that he never would, he never had.

Who would have thought John would be the one to have Sherlock pleading for him?

“Don’t make me beg, please,” Sherlock says, a whining quality to his tone now. “John, I’m not going to beg. I won’t.”

_Too late,_ John thinks, smiling at the wonderful contradiction in Sherlock’s words and in his nature.

A defiant, prideful Omega, _asking_ for help with this most basic urge. John should stop teasing and let him have it, let them both have this. Sherlock really does want this, he reminds himself as a part of his mind still insists that Sherlock couldn’t possibly.

He presses down on the door handle and pushes the door. Nothing. He keeps pressure on the handle and puts his shoulder against the wood, shoving with all his strength. Still no movement.

It’s locked.

“Sherlock,” he calls out, “the door is locked, you need to let me in.”

“I can’t,” comes the immediate reply. “I tried earlier but I couldn’t get the key to work and my hands were shaking and slippery and-”

John closes his eyes, pressing his forehead hard against the door. He mustn't get stuck on that – not the level of need or the reason for slippery hands, or he’s going to come right here before he can even get inside Sherlock’s room. Before he can get inside Sherlock.

Not that it would matter if he did, he’d be ready to go again the instant he caught Sherlock’s scent.

“Okay,” he cuts off the babbling. “Calm down, Sherlock, I’m here now. I’m going to help you-” a choked noise comes from inside the room “-as soon as I can. Just have another go at unlocking the door for me.”

He hears the rustle of Sherlock heaving himself off the bed, his quick footsteps across the floor. He waits.

“I still can’t,” Sherlock says a moment later. “John, I can’t do _anything_ like this. I’m worse than useless. I need to get back to normal, I need- I need you-”

“I know what you need,” John brings a palm up and lays it flat on the door in front of him, a poor substitute for the comforting hand he wants to lay on Sherlock. “I’ll be right there. Just get back from the door for a second; I’m going to have to kick it in.”

This would be so much easier if he could smell Sherlock right now. He’d have his full Alpha strength then and no force on _earth_ could stop him getting to Sherlock, least of all a mere block of wood.

It’d be easier if he wasn’t hard too. He gingerly tucks himself away and zips his jeans, not bothering to button them again. This is bad enough.

“Are you clear?” John asks when Sherlock gives him no indication.

“Yes, I’ve done what you asked me. Now please, come in here and help me. I’ve wanted you for years, you know. I want you so much and I never told you. All this time wasted, but not anymore. I just want you to make this stop…”

John shuts his eyes. Sherlock is going to be extremely vocal with him, it seems. Not to mention eager to please. _I’ve done what you asked me._ He never thought he’d see the day.

He takes a few paces backwards and then surges forward to ram his foot as hard as he can against the door. It gives way under the force of his kick, the wood splintering with a crack and a jolt running right up his leg.

Any pain is gone the second he inhales, the pheromones so dense and plentiful that they’re almost tangible in the air John breathes in.

His rational self goes out the window and he’s left with the overwhelming need to be inside Sherlock, to thrust until his knot forms, to bite him and claim him as his own, to be bitten in return and surrender himself to Sherlock the way Sherlock will yield to him.

Sherlock is obviously feeling the same because the instant the door is no longer an obstacle, he’s launching himself at John and dragging him into the room, a long stretch of pale, naked skin that’s warm to the touch.

“You’re here,” Sherlock murmurs, trying to wrap his entire body around John and really only succeeding with his arms and one of his legs. It’s possibly the most obvious thing Sherlock has ever said, but John understands his meaning.

“I’m here.”

If he thought Sherlock’s skin was warm, it’s nothing compared to the heat of the mouth that descends on his as Sherlock kisses him aggressively, repeatedly, gasping for breath between each brutal press of their mouths. He’s a quick learner; it’s nothing like their previous kisses were. Sherlock has become infinitely more confident, but John can’t help but feel his Alpha side protest.

To get control of the kiss and reassert his dominance, he uses one hand to take hold of both of Sherlock’s wrists and the other to grip his chin, holding him still as he thrusts his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock melts against him with a sigh, soft and submissive, immobile as he lets John roughly explore his mouth. Satisfied, John bites and licks at Sherlock’s top lip before moving to lavish attention on the lower one.

“Your mouth is gorgeous,” John whispers, fingertip tracing the line of it while Sherlock quivers with anticipation and the effort of letting John use him like this without reciprocating. “If I didn’t need to fuck you so badly I’d ask you to suck me, see how pretty your mouth looks then.”

Sherlock arches against him, his sharp hips pressing against John’s. “Please,” he breathes, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “John, please, I’m beyond ready. Feel.”

Sherlock pulls at him until John releases his wrists to steady him with one hand and reach behind him with the other, sliding a finger into him without any preamble.

He’s wet, of course. Sherlock is so far gone that he’s positively _drenched_ , and John finds no resistance as he pushes in as far as he can. Sherlock’s eyes fall shut and he moans, pushing back against John’s hand to urge him on.

“So much better when it’s you. More.”

“How did I guess you’d be demanding?” John lets his middle finger join his index, angles them upwards as best he can, searching for Sherlock’s prostate.

“Still not enough,” Sherlock says, his head dropping down onto John’s shoulder and his hands moving to John’s zip. “Deeper.”

Sherlock quickly gets his fly undone and doesn’t waste any time, pushing both jeans and underwear down John’s thighs just far enough that he can wrap his fingers around John’s erection.

“This should do nicely,” he says, a vague hint of a cheeky grin mixed in with the need etched into the lines of his face. “I want to feel it, I want to know what it’s like. I’ve always heard that it’s an experience beyond compare; there must be some truth in that. So I want you inside me non-stop throughout this heat.”

The base of John’s cock flares at the words – the beginnings of his knot. He’s that aroused at the prospect of fucking Sherlock continuously that his knot is starting to form, even though he’s aware that what Sherlock wants is not much of a possibility.

“Pretty sure you’ll be begging for a break after the first knotting,” he says with a laugh, ghosting a hand over each of Sherlock’s nipples as he continues to gently move his fingers in him.

He knows it’s a tease. His fingers simply aren’t long enough to find the precise spot inside Sherlock that’s making him this wild, but he can find his prostate at the very least.

Sherlock shudders against him after a moment and lets out a bitten-off curse. Ah, found it.

It’s like a switch is flipped. There’s a new rush of fluid over John’s fingers, enough to nearly cause them to slip out of Sherlock and suddenly the room feels close and too small, saturated with Sherlock’s pheromones and John can’t possibly continue teasing him now. He’s consumed by the urge to breed, to mount Sherlock and just rut into oblivion until he fills him with come, even as a tiny voice in his mind insists breeding is the last thing either of them want. They can sort that out later though.

“Oh God, John, please-”

Sherlock can barely get his plea out before John is pushing him back towards the bed, shoving his own pants, trousers, socks and shoes off efficiently and then actually _tearing_ his shirt off with a growl of frustration when the buttons don’t give straight away.

Once he’s fully naked, he strides across to the bed where Sherlock is lying on his back at an angle with his forearm thrown over his eyes and his other arm behind himself, fingers inside again as though he couldn’t bear to be empty for even the few seconds it took for John to divest himself of his clothes.

“Just look at you,” John says, standing over him. “I’ve left you on your own for too long, haven’t I?”

He leans forward and puts his hands around Sherlock’s calves, bracing against his knees so he can haul Sherlock towards him. Sherlock automatically leans back, raising his hips and spreading his legs, still with his fingers moving inside himself.

John reaches out and yanks on Sherlock’s wrist so his fingers come free, slick and shining. “Stop that. Let me.”

He climbs onto the bed and settles himself on top of Sherlock, enjoying the way Sherlock’s mouth opens to form a surprised ‘o’ of pleasure as their erections meet.

Sherlock lifts his hips higher, his knees dropping further apart in invitation. “Now, John. I’ve wanted this for so long, you have no idea.”

“Oh, I have every idea,” John says, and he keeps eye contact with Sherlock to make him understand how much he means that as he guides his cock and joins their bodies in one slow thrust.

Sherlock screws his eyes shut and lets out a gasp as John enters him, the noise straddling the line between ecstasy and pain. John eases out slightly, ready to push back in, fluttering his hand down the length of Sherlock’s arm and seeking reassurance.

“Okay?” he asks.

As he opens his eyes to slits, Sherlock’s expression turns into an all too familiar scowl. “Don’t you dare stop.”

John huffs a laugh and pushes back in. Sherlock shifts his hips experimentally, groaning as he takes John deeper.

It feels incredible to be this close to Sherlock, to be inside him. He’s dreamed about it, but he’s never come close to being able to imagine the level of connection. They’ve both lied and omitted and denied themselves this simple pleasure, and their bodies – however inconvenient, however mortifying it may be – are sweeping that all aside now. There can be no untruths in this room when the conversation that matters is held by skin and sweat, synchronous heartbeats and shared breaths.

Sherlock’s hands come up to his shoulderblades, trying to pull him closer.

“Legs,” John says and Sherlock understands and complies, wrapping his long legs around John’s waist. Heat radiates from his soft thighs, his heels dig into John’s lower back to draw him in further and John feels that swelling sensation at the base of his cock again.

It won’t be long now, but he needs to make Sherlock come first to get the bonding right.

John bows his head to Sherlock’s neck, mouth fitting just above his collarbone, ready to bite when Sherlock goes over the edge. He can feel Sherlock’s erection trapped between them, leaking copiously going by the wetness against his stomach, and reaches down for it blindly.

He curls his fingers around Sherlock and strokes just slightly out of time with his thrusts, thumb running over the head and spreading the precome down as Sherlock bucks into his fist with increasingly distressed-sounding moans.

“Easy,” John says, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s neck and then licking at the spot he’s chosen to sink his teeth into soon. “It’s all right. You’re almost there now.”

Sherlock trembles and gives a soft cry as one strong push of John’s hips gets the head of his cock through that internal opening above his prostate. The fraction of discomfort in the sound quickly gives way to bliss as Sherlock sighs.

“That’s it.” John strokes Sherlock faster, feels Sherlock’s heart rate soar against his chest as every drive in hits the spot that will wring the most pleasure out of him. “That’ll only feel good from now on. Next time, the third time, the fourth-”

He stops when Sherlock stutters his name and spills over his hand, hips jerking. It’s time, and John doesn’t hesitate before dipping his head to scent Sherlock ( _more_ than ready) and then bites Sherlock’s neck to seal his part of the bond. Sherlock arches into his mouth, fingers clawing at John’s back frantically.

“Yours,” Sherlock breathes. “You have to know- Only yours. Oh _God,_ John, I’m-”

Sherlock comes again and the sudden increase in pressure around his cock is almost enough for John. His knot expands further and he pushes forwards even more.

He moves his head from Sherlock’s neck to his ear and flicks his tongue over the lobe. “Feel that?” he asks quietly, the distant non-Alpha part of him knowing Sherlock can’t _not_ feel it, and certainly _does_ feel it judging by the way he’s squirming around like he can’t get comfortable. “That’s going to keep us together for hours while I keep fucking you.”

“It’s not going to-” Sherlock begins. John pulls his head back to admire Sherlock’s flushed cheeks, the dark sweep of his long eyelashes just barely touching them. “It’s too-”

“It will,” John says, knowing exactly what Sherlock is too embarrassed or too breathless to say. “And it’s not. It’s natural, Sherlock, just let it happen. Relax and it will feel better.”

He presses his open mouth to Sherlock’s, dipping his tongue inside. He coaxes Sherlock’s tongue forward to meet his and strokes lightly. As he runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides in reassurance, he skims his knuckles over Sherlock’s right nipple. Sherlock bucks, and then some of the tension at last drains out of him. John tilts his hips to press the knot forward the final couple of centimetres. Panting harshly against Sherlock’s neck, he lets Sherlock get used to the stretch, lets him adjust to the feeling of having John fully inside him.

He gives a careful thrust after he deems enough time to have passed and Sherlock lets out a strangled sob as more wetness seeps out of him to ease the way. John feels it dripping hotly down over his balls and perineum and kisses Sherlock again as if in gratitude for the added sensation.

“So close,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s lips.

If he can feel that leaking out, he knows the knot still isn’t at full size yet, but it’s nearly there. They’re almost at the point of no return.

“Feels better now,” Sherlock says, shifting impatiently. “Just get on with it. I want to feel you come, John, I need it.”

Sherlock is hard _again_ , his cock heavy and flushed against his stomach. John decides there and then that he’s going to get every orgasm he can out of him. He’ll fuck Sherlock until he pleads for him to stop. Maybe even afterwards, just the once, just to see Sherlock writhing beautifully as he tumbles over the precipice into pleasure so exquisite that it’s almost inseparable from agony.

He splays his palms over Sherlock’s hips and pushes hard and fast into him, a feeling akin to panic building in his chest as his knot grows that last little bit and locks them together. He can’t get out, he can’t leave, oh but he doesn’t want to leave, he’s right where he needs to be-

Hands come up to his face, cradling. “John.”

Sherlock is so achingly lovely in heat like this that it almost hurts just to look at him, but John forces himself to meet his eyes again.

"Perhaps you should let go now,” Sherlock says, the pad of his thumb tenderly stroking over John’s cheekbone, beneath his left eye. He rubs his palm across John’s forehead to remove the sweat beaded there.

John hasn’t been to church since he was a child, but the touch feels oddly (blasphemously) like a blessing.

The gesture and the words are enough and John stiffens for a moment and then comes. As he does, Sherlock leans up to bite him where his neck meets his shoulder on the opposite side to his scar. It’s beyond euphoria, it’s like _rapture_ when he feels Sherlock’s teeth pierce his skin and he’s still coming, still fucking Sherlock through it, the knot keeping everything inside. It only takes one stroke to get Sherlock breaking apart under his fingers in his third orgasm.

When they both finally spend themselves, John collapses on top of Sherlock, unable to move or think. The first thing John registers when he gets his senses back is Sherlock’s tongue gently lapping at his neck, soothing the area he just bit.

“We’re bonded now,” Sherlock whispers, pushing back against John and closing his eyes in satisfaction when John groans and comes again, a shorter but still substantial pulse as his Alpha physiology seeks only to increase the chance of conception.

He realises how uncomfortable his position could get when he recovers again, braced over Sherlock as he is with his feet planted on the floor at the edge of the bed. His shoulder aches dimly, nowhere near as painful as it would be outside of heat. As it _will_ be when the heat ends.

The knot is going to make it difficult to move; it’s going to require co-ordination. In the give and take of this first coupling though, John thinks their co-ordination has come on leaps and bounds.

“I’m going to move so we’re on our sides, okay?” he asks, planting his hands on Sherlock’s waist to hold him steady.

Sherlock tenses and nods his understanding.

“Better hold onto me, love.”

John freezes, aborting the idea of moving as he realises what’s just come out of his mouth.

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock frowns at him. “Are you honestly worrying about the endearment when it’s one you’ve used on me before?”

“We were faking it then,” John protests.

“I wasn’t.”

John stares at him and Sherlock’s expression seems to suddenly close off.

“But you were,” Sherlock says flatly.

“No. No, Sherlock, I wasn’t. That’s why I was surprised to hear you-” John shakes his head in disbelief. “No, you were putting on a show for your family, reacting to what I gave you! How can you possibly tell me you weren’t? You held my hand!”

Sherlock grimaces. “Well, some of my actions were part of the pretence but certain things I said were true.”

John tucks a memo away somewhere in his mind to go back through the conversations of the past day at a later time when his brain is actually working, not clogged with lust.

“This conversation can wait,” Sherlock declares, and ordinarily John would argue with him, but he’s right in this case. “The point is, I don’t mind you calling me that.”

“Really? I thought you would hate that sort of thing.”

A subtle shade of pink dusts itself across Sherlock’s cheeks and he emphatically keeps his mouth shut.

“Sherlock,” John says, amusement coming into his voice, “tell me why you _want_ me to call you that.”

It’s evidently beyond ‘not minding’.

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me, or I’ll leave you here without an Alpha for the rest of your heat. Good luck with the second wave. And the rest after that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t. You _couldn’t_ , your body wouldn’t let you, you’d be back on me in seconds.”

“Try me.”

They stare each other down for a brief moment.

“You can’t go anywhere while we’re still knotted,” Sherlock points out, rather obviously.

John has to laugh. “So I’ll go after.”

“You wouldn’t. I know you. You wouldn’t leave me, even if you could, so it’s no use trying to blackmail me with the idea.” Sherlock hesitates for a while and then rolls his eyes as if in admission of defeat. “It’s… remember when we spoke after the second bonded scent we tried? Once again, it’s just too ridiculous to say.”

Without another word, John leans down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s bond bite, opening his mouth and sucking lightly at the broken skin.

“There’s nothing you can’t say to me now,” he says when he pulls back.

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock huffs. “You remember I told you that I- that I felt _loved_ after the second bonded scent we tried? This is our real bonded scent, yours and mine, and I just feel that even more now, especially with you calling me… _that_. It’s not unpleasant."

Sherlock puts both hands over his face the instant he finishes speaking, hiding his eyes. “It’s the heat,” he mumbles. “And the bond. The pheromones are making me say stupid, sentimental things, _please_ just ignore me. Don’t let me say any more.”

John peels Sherlock’s fingers away from his face. “Don’t be daft, I’m not going to ignore you. I know what you mean. My love,” he says softly, testing it out. He pulls Sherlock’s hands back down and intertwines their fingers. “My beloved.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again, but he’s calming now he knows he isn’t being mocked or rejected. “That’s a bit far,” he says. “Although I know you’re something of a traditionalist, I’d rather you didn’t start in on the beloved thing. ‘Love’ is fine, if you have to call me something, but never outside. It’s just for us when we’re together like this. All right?”

The startling intimacy of Sherlock allowing that blooms through John, warm and seductive. “Just for us,” he repeats. “Now, if you don’t mind, I still have to move. My shoulder’s killing me.”

Sherlock brings his hands up, looping his arms around John’s neck to hold on and gives a short nod to show he’s ready.

John moves quickly, but the rolling movement still causes his knot to twist in Sherlock who gives a low moan, indicating he’s rapidly approaching over-sensitivity.

“Told you you’d be asking for a break,” John laughs when they’re more comfortably positioned, a hot, trembling tangle of limbs still joined at the waist.

“It’s going to come on again soon though, the first knotting is always the shortest and so the second wave isn’t far off. A break will be the farthest thing from my mind.”

Instead of pressing the point, John reaches up and runs a hand through Sherlock’s unruly hair, the tips of his curls slick with sweat. Sherlock pushes into the contact like a cat and John chuckles as he scratches at Sherlock’s scalp on a whim.

“Until then,” Sherlock continues as if he hadn’t stopped speaking, “I suggest you try not to jostle me too much.”

They lie mostly still for a long few minutes, alternating between deep, drawn-out kisses and states of contentment at just being able to breathe together and luxuriate in their bond, both feeling for the edges of this new, bright thing and finding it boundless.

In a moment of rest, John lays his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes on the teethmarks he left above Sherlock’s collarbone, a vivid red against his pale skin. He traces a finger over each indentation, relishing the way Sherlock shivers at the light touch, the way he feels it within himself too.

“Next time,” Sherlock says, apropos of nothing, “I should be on top to save your shoulder.”

John breathes in sharply at the idea. “You want to ride me?”

“If that’s what you call it.”

There’s something very appealing about the prospect of Sherlock in that position – in control the way John knows he would want to be if his nature would only allow it. Outside of heat, John will gladly cede control to him if that’s what he wants. In heat, he’ll do what he can to give it back to him.

“All right then.” He’s proud of the way he keeps his voice even as he says it.

It takes a further ten minutes for John’s knot to loosen and they both groan at the loss when John eases out with a wince, still hard. He could easily push right back in, especially when he sees fresh lubrication sluice down Sherlock’s thighs, but they definitely need to move. Sherlock is right about his shoulder.

“John-” Sherlock starts, the desperation edging its way back into his tone as the second wave crashes over them both.

“I know, one minute and then it’s going to be better again. _We’ll_ be better this time.”

He stands up with regret, beckoning Sherlock to do the same, then settles himself properly on the bed, stretched out with his head on the pillows while Sherlock watches him, one hand already travelling back towards his entrance. Going by his glazed expression, it’s unconscious.

John rolls his eyes affectionately and nods at his own erection. “Come on then, Beloved-”

He doesn’t even finish the glib request. Sherlock is on him at once, gripping John’s cock, positioning himself and sinking down with a deep moan. With his knees on either side of John and his hands braced against the headboard above him, he pushes himself up and then lowers himself back down. It’s unbelievable to watch, but John’s eyes are most drawn to the way Sherlock’s kiss-swollen lips part, the way his head tips back with abandon to bare his long neck with its freshly-made bond bite.

The mere sight has John so exhilarated that he can feel his knot forming already. This is going to be a much faster round, he can tell.

John raises one hand to Sherlock’s hip, thumb stroking over the prominent bone, and uses the other to pull on Sherlock’s cock a few times before moving his hand lower to caress the heavy swell of his balls. Sherlock continues to ride him as if there was no tomorrow, speeding up as he gets close with John touching him.

He’s hitting Sherlock’s prostate now: Sherlock has clearly found the angle he likes best because he’s stopped changing it.

“There,” Sherlock gasps. “I can feel your knot, John. Oh, please, I’m nearly-”

Even as he says it, John pushes his knot all the way in and Sherlock comes, the contractions of his body forcing John to spill inside him for the third time. Sherlock’s mouth finds its way inexorably to his and kisses him with a sort of teasing laziness, wet lips dragging and teeth grazing.

He can still feel himself coming when Sherlock finishes, slumping against him and twitching periodically.

"You feel so good,” Sherlock says between kisses, biting at John’s lower lip to punctuate the end of the comment.

“I feel exhausted, actually.”

Sherlock laughs. “I could do it again.”

He clenches very deliberately around John, who pulses weakly inside him. “Rest first?”

“Now who’s the one asking for a break?”

“The Alpha, and when you’re in heat, the Alpha is in charge.”

Sherlock smirks. “The Omega’s pheromones are in charge, I think you’ll find.”

“And when they next flood my senses, I will shove my knot right back in you, happy?”

With a startlingly fond nuzzle against John’s neck, Sherlock seems appeased by that, curling into John’s chest as much as he can while they’re tied together and inseparable.

  
  
\--  
  


John still wakes to Sherlock astride him again.

“I needed it,” Sherlock pants, managing to make it sound accusatory even as he effectively uses John as a sentient sex toy.

It’s definitely one of the better ways John has been woken up by Sherlock.

  
  
\--  
  


“You got my note, I take it,” Sherlock says during their second knotting on the third day.

They’re almost fresh out of the shower, which they should have taken separately. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Showering together was obviously fraught with danger – too much wet naked skin and too many pheromones in an enclosed space. John ended up fucking Sherlock against the tiles and _then_ ended up in the predicament of having to awkwardly bear him down to the floor because being knotted and staying upright was just _impossible_. At least the bathrooms in the house are generously sized…

John shakes his head, trying to remember what Sherlock said and get his mind off counting how many times he made Sherlock come in that bathroom before they managed to get out of it and back to Sherlock’s bed.

The note, right. Mycroft gave him it. About a year ago, if John’s estimation of time is correct. He’s aware it might not be.

It’s the first time they’ve talked about it, actually, in between all the crazed rutting and whatnot. At least they sheepishly managed to get the birth control sorted during one of the lulls.

John nods. “I did indeed get your letter.”

“Were you surprised to learn that I’ve actually wanted you for some time now?”

“At first. I still am, a bit. Seriously, why me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s arms tighten around him. “Why not you? Must I spell it out?”

“It might help, yeah.”

For the life of him, he can’t see it. He has enough self-worth to know he’s a good man, a good doctor. He was a competent soldier. He’s intelligent, resourceful, sometimes he’s funny, and he’s not _un_ attractive. Compared to Sherlock though, he’s stupid. He’s boring; beyond insignificant. He’s a spark and Sherlock is a bloody inferno. John has a part to play in the world, sure, but it’s always as an accessory to Sherlock, not a necessity.

Sherlock looks him in the eye, his eyebrows drawn together like he’s confused. “Because you’ve infiltrated every area of my mind, John. You’re lurking in the corners, standing in the open and taking up space that _should_ be for more important things. And yet, more and more, I can’t bear to chase you out. I can’t fill that space with anything else, and I can’t seem to remember what used to go there before you.”

John holds his breath, the admission stunning him into silence.

“You’re tense. Why have you gone tense? Have I said something wrong?”

“No, you-” John shakes his head. “No, you’ve said exactly the right thing, in your own way. And I- I love you too.”

He lowers his head to Sherlock’s, takes in his wide, frightened eyes at John’s words. John smiles and then kisses Sherlock carefully, reverently. He keeps the kiss delicate, mouth closed and soft, and pulls back to see the fear in Sherlock’s expression has been replaced by wonder, a curious brightness to his eyes as he reaches up a hand to caress the side of John’s face from temple to jaw.

“Very much,” he says.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part! Thank you to all who read and thank you for the lovely comments. I'll be replying to you all eventually!

Sherlock’s heat ends much more abruptly than it started.

John wakes in the morning on the fifth day to Sherlock poking him in his ribs and telling him that they’re done so would John please remove himself from Sherlock so they can _finally_ wash properly, without interruption, and go home?

Dutifully removing himself as asked, John finds the all-consuming need of heat has indeed faded and left behind that gentle, familiar ache that he always carries around Sherlock. It’s also left a cold sort of dread that seizes at his heart – this is it, Sherlock is back to his normal mind-set now. What if he didn’t _really_ want this?

“Don’t panic,” Sherlock drawls as he stands up and stretches with a groan of immense satisfaction at being back in full control of his over-worked body. “The chatter of your panicking mind is even louder than Anderson straining to have a single cognisant thought.”

John can only watch with a gaping mouth as Sherlock moves around the room, unabashedly naked, collecting up his clothes with the odd wince as certain motions remind him of the various little hurts that built up in their… enthusiasm for each other.

“How do- never mind.”

“Because my heat is over,” Sherlock answers him anyway, still not looking at him, “and you’re already worrying about me rejecting you. I’m not going to, so stop panicking. Did you not listen to me at all during the last few days?”

“You blamed it on the pheromones at one point!” John sits up in the bed; it’s a better position to shout at Sherlock. “And the bond making you say ‘stupid, sentimental’ things!”

Sherlock turns to look at him, frowning. He somehow makes it not-ridiculous, even standing there naked as the day he was born with a bundle of his clothes in his arms. “Why are you yelling at me?” His face cycles quickly from incredulous to calculating to irritated. “You’re afraid that I regret our bonding.”

John bristles at the implication that he’s afraid of _anything_. “No, I-”

“You are,” Sherlock talks over him in that voice of his that he uses when he’s going to talk and talk and never listen to a word that’s said to him. “You’re terrified that I don’t want you anymore, that I’ve somehow used you like a heat aid and I’m going to discard you now I’m done with you.”

“Aren’t you?” He’s ashamed by how small his voice is when he asks that.

“You’re an idiot, John.”

Sherlock drops his clothes, strides purposefully over to the bed and climbs on top of John. With a sigh, he bends his head and pushes his nose against the bite he left on John’s neck during their first coupling.

John trembles and shuts his eyes at the feeling of warmth and dampness against his skin as Sherlock inhales a deep breath, exhales, and then licks softly at his throat.

“I told you in my note that this bond was merely a formality,” Sherlock murmurs after a few moments, lifting his head and baring his own neck for John to scent him in return. “You have to believe that I meant that.”

It’s an early stage to be reaffirming their bond, but John does it gladly, relieved to bury his face against Sherlock’s neck and breathe in their combined scent. It’s so much better than the artificial one which, while based on their respective scents, still came from them when they were separate. Now, they’re almost inseparable, and John would die before he or Sherlock ended up like Sherlock’s unbonded mother. The heat is _definitely_ over because John has the capacity to make a mental note to speak to Sherlock about his mother at a later stage.

When he’s breathed in his fill, he presses his open mouth against the bond bite, kissing and sucking with growing fervour while Sherlock gasps and arches against him, his hands coming down to thread his fingers through the hair at the nape of John’s neck.

“Thought we were done with this for a while,” Sherlock says, breathless, and John can tell, he can just _tell_ that Sherlock has his eyes squeezed shut as he gives himself over to sensation. “Evidently not. Shower. _Now_. We can do this just as easily there and I do want to go _home_ at some point today.”

The inescapable need and hastiness of heat is one thing, but the slow, anticipatory unfurling of desire is another and John cherishes the simmering feeling as they walk across the room to Sherlock’s en suite, hands joined and pulses thrumming, unable to look at each other without smiling like they just invented love all by themselves.

“I never thought I could want this,” Sherlock says when they first get in the shower and turn the water on, shivering and pressed together under the cold water before it warms up. “I never dreamed it would feel like this. I thought I might hate it, but I wanted to keep you. I wanted you to be mine, and now it’s better than I ever thought it would be.”

John is hard already and he can feel Sherlock’s erection against him, rubbing just slightly at his hip for friction. He wonders at the tenacity of their bodies – tired and sore and _still_ aroused after four days of almost non-stop sex. It’s a testament to how repressed they’ve been, how much there is still left to communicate.

Tenacious or not, this type of want doesn’t call for rough and fast, and John is appropriately gentle when he goes to his knees and takes Sherlock in his mouth. He sucks with a lazy, unhurried pace, humming in gratitude when Sherlock’s fingers once again weave through the hair at the back of his head. God, he loves that needy side to Sherlock, loves being held in place to increase Sherlock’s pleasure.

“John,” Sherlock mumbles his name brokenly.

John already knew he was close – he could tell from the aborted thrusts of his hips, the tightening of Sherlock’s fingers in his hair, the quickening of his breaths and the low moans coming from the back of his throat. He’s become used to just about all of Sherlock’s verbal and non-verbal sensual cues in the past four days.

In reply, John only sucks that bit harder, runs his tongue over the head that bit firmer, squeezes that bit tighter with his hand.

Sherlock’s orgasm outside of heat is less frenzied and John opens his eyes to watch Sherlock’s face, fascinated and teetering on the edge himself. There’s a vulnerability to Sherlock like this: his soft, open mouth, his fluttering eyelids and flushed cheeks. John is completely entranced.

When Sherlock comes down from his high, all sleepy eyes and loose limbs, he sinks down to the floor of the shower with John.

“Stand,” he commands, but it’s a weak order in his ruined voice.

John obeys anyway, pushing himself up to lean heavily against the slick wall of the shower where Sherlock had been previously, the hot spray from above them directed at the entrance of the shower cubicle to his left and only sprinkling faintly against his chest.

He lets out a strangled moan when he feels Sherlock crawl up beside him, hands resting like dead weights on his thighs and mouthing wearily at the head of his cock. It hits him that Sherlock can’t have given a blowjob before, and it probably isn’t the best idea to start when he’s exhausted from heat and what must feel like (and what might even _be_ ) his fiftieth orgasm in five short days.

“Sherlock,” he says, reaching down a hand to fuss at Sherlock’s curls. “You’re tired, we both are. You don’t have to do this.”

Sherlock ignores him, pushing himself up more fully onto his knees and taking more of John into his mouth. He gives an inelegant, forceful suck and John’s knees buckle.

“Okay then,” John says, head tipping back and hitting the tiles with a dull thud. “Do what you want.”

Besides, one more suck and he’ll probably be-

_Oh._

Sherlock has an unbearable smugness about him when he pulls off and strokes John through his orgasm.

“Bloody hell,” John gasps out. “I really do love you, you brilliant, insane genius.”

They both wind up on the floor again, still languidly kissing long after the water turns cool against their heated skin.

  
  
\--  
  


The stares are much more tolerable on the train ride home.

The envy is still there (which is oddly pleasing now), but John can’t see that plain disbelief in the eyes of the other passengers this time. He puts that down to the frustration of the first journey, when he wanted Sherlock in his very _bones_ and thought he could never have him in that way. He was projecting, perhaps. He laughs; his therapist would love to know that he even _thought_ that.

Well, there is one man looking at him with a vaguely murderous expression and looking at Sherlock covetously, but John is ignoring him for the most part, even after the man purposely bumped shoulders with him in the aisle on their way to take their seats. While he could easily knock the man’s teeth down his throat, he’s taking the moral high ground. It’s petty Alpha jealousy: Sherlock is his, Sherlock _chose_ him, and the man will be able to smell that. The very thought makes John feel elated, like their bond is somehow visceral around them, like it’s lighting him up from the inside. The man is beyond insignificant compared to that feeling.

Sherlock, once again, is looking out the window. This time, however, John isn’t focusing on the distance between their hands because his is resting on top of Sherlock’s and their fingers are entwined.

John hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to take his seat on the train and deliberately raise the armrest between them to lay his hand along the join in the seats, his palm facing up as if in invitation. John had sat beside him for a long two minutes, uncertain and uncomfortable until Sherlock had turned his head and given him a wry smile, glancing down at his open hand.

“If you want to,” he’d said.

It turned out that John wanted to very much.

“I have to warn you,” Sherlock says some time later, “that while my affection for you is beyond question, I’m not going to be all hearts and flowers with you once we’re back at Baker Street. You know how much I value the work and that isn’t going to change. If I’m on a case, you shouldn’t be upset or offended if I push you away physically and emotionally.”

John nods. He _was_ expecting this conversation. “I get that. I’ll leave it to you to initiate things, if you’d prefer?”

“And I’ll be taking my heat suppressants during cases,” Sherlock continues without answering him – it’s a sign he’s not listening, he just wants to get through what he has to say. “Probably between them too at times if I don’t want to be bothered with it.”

Sherlock’s jaw is tense; his fingers are stiff around John’s. He’s the one worrying about rejection now, John realises.

Lust-addled though he was, John really did think about these things in that half hour of grace that Mycroft gave him. He knew that Sherlock’s priorities were going to shift if they bonded, but they weren’t going to be very different overall. Sherlock said it himself: bonding was a formality. In his mind, it wasn’t _meant_ to alter things that much between them.

_I thought I might hate it, but I wanted to keep you._

John wants to keep Sherlock, and he means to. He’s not one for hearts and flowers anyway, not really. All he wants, all he’s ever wanted is this right here. Until now, Sherlock has been looking out the window, lost in thought and ignoring him, but his hand was in John’s. They were connected, but Sherlock was still himself, doing what he usually would. John would never want or ask him to change.

“Sherlock, it’s fine. Heat is nice, but it takes it out of you. Like you said, it’s time consuming and messy. It takes away your control and I know how you hate that. I’d understand if you never wanted to repeat it, honestly.”

Sherlock’s rigid fingers soften and then squeeze. “I’m not saying ‘never’ to another heat. It was pleasurable. Even the loss of control, in its way. I’m certainly not saying ‘no’ to sex in general, but I know our respective desires for that will differ at times. You have to understand that.”

The message is clear: Sherlock will always be more concerned with his work than he ever will with sex.

“And you have to understand that when I say ‘it’s fine’, that means it’s _all_ fine.”

Sherlock smiles at the memory of an earlier conversation, the point when their misunderstandings began. The words mean something else entirely now.

The smile drops and Sherlock’s expression becomes his familiar ‘making deductions’ scan. “It’s fine that I value the work more than you?”

That question should hurt. It should cut John to the quick, but he knows it isn’t true. “No, it’s fine that you value the work more than _sex_ , which is what you just said. I know my place with you because we just cemented it.” He brings his free hand up to stroke his index fingertip lightly along Sherlock’s bond bite, the stark contrast of the red against his pale skin. “You would never have done all this if I didn’t matter to you. This whole trip was designed to test me – to test _us_ – and to get this outcome. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Sherlock’s smile is back again. John joins him and they giggle quietly together in the crowded train. When they settle, Sherlock gives him a sly look, glances at the Alpha across the train who is _still_ glaring at John, and leans forward for a long, showy kiss before loudly making rude deductions about the man and his inability to satisfy any of his former lovers. John tries to hush him, but it’s hard to silence someone through your own peals of laughter.

The man leaves the carriage long before the next stop. Sherlock smirks, leans back in his seat, and resumes watching the scenery fly past them. His face is bathed in the winter sunlight coming through the window and he tilts his head towards the slight warmth, shutting his eyes and basking like a contented cat. John shakes his head, still grinning to himself.

As the train rocks along inexorably, he thinks of London. _Home_. He thinks of the minor stir they’re going to cause by returning bonded.

London had better be prepared for them, he thinks.


End file.
